


it's just a silly phase

by Lydia_Martin_trash



Series: Triple threat Theon Greyjoy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rich people mentality, That sweet subcelebrity life, The funny sads, The sad funnies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Martin_trash/pseuds/Lydia_Martin_trash
Summary: If a man is straight, he's not going to stop being straight just because he likes a cock up his ass sometimes. Theon is sure enough of himself to know.Or, Theon slowly unlearns some of that good old Greyjoy bullshit, and learns some more about himself.
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Dagmer Cleftjaw & Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Jeyne Poole, Theon Greyjoy/Patrek Mallister, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Series: Triple threat Theon Greyjoy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189640
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	it's just a silly phase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mis_Shapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mis_Shapes/gifts), [Evax3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evax3/gifts).



> Hello, readers! A few notes before we get started.
> 
> First of all, the original idea of this fic is not mine. This whole project was born of a tumblr post by an Angela, who has since left fandom and tumblr as far as I can tell and who I have been unable to find in the internet. I got her permission to work on her idea back in the time before the plague (2018? 2017?), so if you're reading this Angela, this is on you too! Even though ever since I send you an anon ask this fic has changed so much that only the bare bones of "what if Patrek was Theon's first hookup with a man?" remains.
> 
> Another thing that helped shape this fic was me learning about the existence of g0ys and thinking Theon would definitely pull that shit.
> 
> Third: this fic is undertagged on purpose. If you've read anything of mine, you know I'm usually overcautious about tagging, but sadly I can't be bothered this time. There's just too many things to tag, so I put just the most important ones and what I wanted. Consider this a final warning. The close button is your friend, bullshit in the comments will be either deleted or ignored according to my mood.
> 
> Finally, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY DARLING MJ WHO PUTS UP WITH SO MUCH!!! This fic would never have been finished without you there to hold my hand through it. Also thank you to Vana for the careful beta reading and to Eva for cheering me on even though I left this fic mysterious on purpose. I hope you enjoy it, lovely :D
> 
> Title from "I'm not in love", by 10cc.

It's not like Theon has planned on it. He wouldn't, ever! Just thinking about Robb hurting because of him, because of something he has done, has his stomach aching. So no, he hasn't planned on it.

If asked, he'd say it was a confluence of events that, in isolation, were impossible to predict or connect to the final conclusion. It was chance. A happenstance, really, that occurred by no fault whatsoever of Theon or by his choice.

It goes like this.

A) Kyra might look innocent, but she is always down to do the dirty. At least with Theon. And it's not his fault if her friends are like that too! Bessa has a boring husband who travels for business all the time. Again, it was not Theon's fault that Kyra invited Bessa to her apartment during one of his travels. And while Theon was there, no less! He'd go so far as to say that it had been kinda premeditated on their part, as a grand last hurrah before Kyra left for her semester abroad. As it stands, Theon didn't plan on that specific three-way, went to Kyra's with no clue that it would turn out the way it did. He doesn't always have the best ideas after drinking! And he had bought only the one bottle of wine anyway, Kyra and Bessa had provided the devil's peach schnapps. And if it had quickly turned from drinking and movies into Bessa sucking his dick while Kyra ate his ass, Theon was hardly to blame this time. It wasn’t even his idea. They are pretty, and he is easy.

So discovering he likes to have his ass played with during sex? Totally on them.

B) He didn't really expect his father to happily pay for his college the way he did for Asha and Maron and Rodrick, mostly because his siblings were always going to work in the family business and Theon couldn't even pretend to be interested. Not convincingly. He'd figured he'd have to pay for anything he wanted that didn't have to do with fishing, but he hadn't been prepared for his father to kick him out of the house and cut him off completely when he had made it clear that he wanted something else for his future. The house was practically communal! His stupid uncles lived there half the year! Even goddamned Euron, whenever he wasn't doing time for whatever fucked up thing he had been caught doing last!

It had been shocking, and disheartening, and Theon had been caught unawares. He'd even maybe cried himself to sleep a few times, when it had become evident that there would be no coming back from that, though he'll accept a future of smelling like tuna 24/7 before he admits it out loud.

He had gotten back on his feet eventually; not without help, as it was. Dagmer had found him before he even knew there was anyone looking for him and had let him sleep on his couch. The Starks had offered to do the same when they found out; at Robb's behest, no doubt.

In the end, he had found himself a job, first at a fast-food chain, thanks to them taking literally anyone ever, even a newly disgraced and infamous conglomerate heir; then at a fancy shoe shop, thanks to his mother, who passed her good looks and straight nose down to him instead of the classic Greyjoy hook. He had done well enough there that he had moved out of Dagmer's in five months and moved to an apartment with four roommates.

Three years later, he's working as a personal shopper at a Myrish Fashion store, taking a Sketching and Drawing class at the local college, and he finally has an apartment of his own, no sharing anything ever again with anyone for Theon, ever! Sure, Robb has a key that Theon gave him when he visited, because his plan is to go to Medical School in the same city, and what if he needs to crash somewhere after a party (unlikely) or an ill-advised all-nighter (much more likely)? He is not going to use it if Theon knows him at all, but he had offered, same as he had with Dagmer. He owned it to them. And Robb – unlike Dagmer, who had thanked him but insisted he wouldn’t need it living in the sea – had accepted.

Who can blame him for being excited about having his own space? He is the one who pays for everything. He can do anything he wants there! Bring anyone over, kick anyone out! It is his!

It can be argued, technically, the fault for this one is Balon's, for setting him free in the first place.

C) Robb has been his best friend from the time he walked up to Theon, ten and sulking in his new house's sidewalk after a beating, standing too tall and confident for a seven-year-old and carrying a brown paper bag, and said _Wanna bet I can eat this entire bag of scorpion peppers in two minutes?_ Theon had said _Sure!_ and timed him, and then he had thrown Robb in the pool in the backyard when he turned red. Their friendship was strong from then on, and Theon can admit he is fond of Robb, as one is fond of someone after growing up together. He's even proud of being Robb's number one bro, but.

Theon has always had a hard time making friends. He doesn’t connect well or easily. He alternates between being too shy, too harsh or too annoying. Too ironborn, unless you're talking to other ironborn. No one sticks around for long. Unless they're girls. Then they stick around until Theon inevitably puts his dick in them. Thenthey leave, too, unless they're as fucked up as Theon himself, in which case, he does the ditching. Good riddance.

This means that Theon's social group from the time he was ten has always been Robb, Robb's friends, and Robb’s grumpy cousin. Jon hates him, but the friends usually tolerate Theon alright, might even like Theon when the stars are aligned, but aside from Robb, no one is really there for the pleasure of his company exclusively.

Not like that stings; he doesn't think about it and he's fine. More than fine. He doesn't even see those people who live to be in Robb's orbit as much when he leaves home and goes to live at Dagmer's. He's good. And he's so busy anyway that he hardly has time to socialize with those losers or anyone else. Whatever free time he has he spends sleeping, and it's always way too little time.

Unfortunately, this means when his life is more or less in order again, and he has some sort of routine and time for people, in theory, well... he's had exactly one real friendship in his life.

Robb has kinda spoiled him. Sure, they have their issues, like the no-boundaries, no-secrets thing. Maybe Theon has been in the general vicinity of Robb’s boner more times than most friends would be comfortable with. Perhaps he enjoys needling him about it far too much. But! Robb never fails to laugh at Theon's (very funny, thank you) jokes; he takes an interest in Theon's interests; he’s always supportive and never mocked him the few times he had lost it and cried in front of him. He was even there for Theon when Mom was hospitalized for good, at Theon’s lowest and meanest. The point is, Robb is such a great friend that he may have ruined other friendships for Theon forever. He didn’t even think he was capable of liking someone else as a friend after him!

When he does, he has little idea of what is normal.

If anyone is at fault this time, Theon is sorry to say, it's Robb himself.

They met at a summer drawing class. Theon is dressed in a simple dark brown pantalon and canary yellow shirt outfit, sharpening his charcoals and organizing them by softness, mostly for something to do, because the model is late again. The joys of city college's free night courses.

When he enters the room, Theon does a double take – inconspicuously – because the rumor mill has it that the model will be hot this time, so this must be him, right? He's tall, lean, has wide shoulders and big hands, brown hair neatly trimmed but uncombed. A symmetrical face and a square, strong jawline.

Not necessarily very interesting to draw, but not someone who Theon would mind seeing naked. He wouldn’t even mind talking to him, maybe, but he’s wearing a combo of beige cargo pants and camo T-shirt, so Theon feels he must respect his wishes to camouflage with the room and not acknowledge his presence.

The guy's carrying his own sketch pad and charcoals, so he must be a student too, not the model. Maybe someone who enrolled late. Theon is already losing interest and turning back to his own materials, but the guy catches him looking and comes over, a friendly smile blooming on his face.

“Hi, is this seat taken?” He asks, but sits down right next to Theon without waiting for an answer even though there's nothing but empty seats all around them. “I'm Patrek, nice to meet you.”

“Theon.” He says, nodding slightly, perfunctory smile in place.

He doesn't know why he even bothers answering. He dislikes people as a rule and Patrek is not particularly endearing. Theon gets to judge him while the class goes by. He dresses badly; he was late to the one thing Theon loves; he is bad at and seems to actively despise drawing; worse, he's disruptive and keeps talking to Theon while he's trying to concentrate.

“So I'm really here because my father thinks I should make something with my summer before real college and a night class was enough to appease him, I guess.” He shrugs. “Beats working.”

Somehow, even as Theon is frothing at the mouth with every word uttered, Patrek remains oblivious and goes on and on, like he thinks everyone else in the room has the same reasoning as him. The hour passes like this until finally, when it's done and they go to give the teacher whatever they have done for feedback, Patrek gets a glimpse of Theon's drawing.

“Wow, dude!” He smiles, honest enough to make his blue eyes brighter. “You're really good.”

The thing is, Theon is mediocre. He knows this, and the teacher knows this, and his far superior classmates know this. Not bad, not good. Medium. He keeps showing up to class and practicing whenever he's free, and there's hope he'll get better with time, but he started later than most because at the Greyjoys' drawing was considered girly. As were all the arts but the one singer Balon liked. He could only really do it at home when Asha and him did their homework together, for plausible deniability. The rest of time, he was doodling in notebooks margins at school or at the Starks’ and hastily disposing of any evidence. More likely than not, his art will only ever be a hobby and he'll always work within the most unfashionable part of the fashion industry, telling people without the sense the Drowned God gave a sea slug how to dress passably, never creating anything of note, never leaving his mark.

It's clear Patrek doesn't know up from down about drawing, but Theon is weak. He likes being complimented, and all the better if it's not about how someone creamed their pants because of him. For the novelty of it.

“Thanks, man.” He smiles back. “You doing anything after this?”

“Not really.” Patrek says, going for casual, but sounding really, really hopeful. “I usually hang out with my mates, but Ed is getting married soon, so he's all about being a serious man now, and everyone else follows suit.”

Theon feels sorry for anyone marrying in the same season as the wedding of the decade in the Riverlands, but not that much, because Patrek gives him a full belly laugh when he guesses, “Except you.”

It's a Friday night, but it's still early. Theon would usually go out for a drink anyway if he could talk Jeyne into it after her own lessons. He's been missing most happy hours with people from work ever since he enrolled in this class. His classmates are all older, with balls and chains or children, and Robb won't be here for three months yet. The other night he was so desperate for human interaction after walking Jeyne home that he almost returned one of Asha's calls. He could use a new drinking buddy.

“There's a place near here.” He tells Patrek. It's funny how he perks right up, like a puppy. His eyes are almost as blue as Robb's. “Let's go, first round is on me.”

Patrek is quick to accept, and quicker to become his friend.

It's a nice feeling.

Being friends with Patrek is a completely different experience from being friends with Robb. It throws Theon off his game. Not that this is a bad thing, but sometimes it feels... weird. Like looking at one of those distorting mirrors at a vagrant amusement park.

Patrek, it turns out, is way too much like Theon. Like Theon was before he had to pay his own credit card. They both like their booze. They like sex and pretty, easy girls. They like clubbing and dancing, and they like the occasional high. They're basically the same person, except Patrek is so clearly a beloved only child it makes Theon gag. He'd be jealous if he was the sort.

They have their differences too. A month into this friendship and Patrek still can't appreciate their shared drawing class properly, nor can he dress like anything other than a wannabe voluntary soldier. More than anything else, he has flipped Theon's instinctual role, his normal place in every relationship he's ever had: next to Patrek, Theon is the responsible one. Who’d have imagined that?! When they go out together, it's Theon who pulls the brake and calls the last shot, the one to suggest they take a cab or the subway. It's only natural, as he's the one with a job to get to in the morning, the one worried about petty things like hospital bills.

He doesn't work Sundays, so Saturday night is when he can really let loose. Kyra is his usual partner in crime, but now that she’s in Braavos, Theon convinces Patrek to ditch his weekly family dinner early to go clubbing with him. It's the opening night of some neon pink abomination, but it has an open bar; they go to town. It feels amazing, like many of his bad ideas feel before they flung him into a pit of misery, but Theon can't bring himself to care at the moment. He's ecstatic. The music has his blood singing.

He makes Patrek dance with him until they're both soaked with sweat, too disgusting and wasted to get any, but horny from the drinking and the throng of bodies moving around them.

They leave for the subway in the late hours of the night, late enough it's almost early, leaning on each other, laughing at nothing and scaring a stray cat along the way.

“I know what we should do!” Patrek all but yells once they get a seat in the subway car. He's naturally loud, and louder when drunk.

There's no one to bother aside from an old lady in her button-up floral dress and Seven crystal necklace a few seats left, however, so Theon relaxes and smiles at her automatically, a silent _excuse my dumb friend, please and thank you_. Only then Patrek starts narrating in all graphic details how this girl he knows likes to take it. Theon nods along, watching in amusement from the corner of his eye as the old lady recoils in horror, clutching her pendant like she plans to pull off an exorcism then and there and muttering about sinners.

He isn't even doing anything! And what's she even doing out at this hour, if she's too good for the likes of them?

“And I'm pretty sure she'd be into a threesome,” Patrek finishes, insinuation clear in his tone.

Theon is not really bothered by the suggestion itself. What's a shared girl between mates, after all? It wouldn't be the first time Theon has accidentally bumped into a friend’s boner. Like the day he first met Patrek, he's suddenly stuck by the thought that he wouldn't mind seeing him naked. But just the idea of calling this girl for a booty call at four in the morning on a Sunday, of having her either hang up on them or make them go another twenty stops turns him off.

“You're such a sweet baby,” Theon says. He makes a point to establish eye-contact with the old lady before turning back to Patrek and launching into his own sordid tale.

By the time he's done, the old lady has fled to another car and Patrek is looking at him with his mouth hanging open, pink lips forming a delicate O. His ridiculous khaki trousers are slightly tented, Theon is proud to see.

“Did you really like that?” There's a sort of hungry awe in his voice, he is almost salivating. “That thing... with your ass.”

Theon chuckles, but doesn't reply; they're at his stop now. Patrek follows him out of the car, all but plasters himself to Theon's back; he's so wasted it's probably a good idea to let him crash at his place anyway. The way he hobbles around trying to hide his boner without putting his hands in his pockets is hysterical, so Theon easily forgives the times he pokes him with it.

They make their way stumbling over each other's feet until getting to Theon's door. He struggles to find the right key and to put it into the keyhole, and Patrek makes everything ten times harder in a multitude of ways by leaning all of his weight into Theon. He's patting the small of Theon's back under his collared green shirt, following the line of his spine with a finger, and though it's not very dignified, Theon jumps and giggles every time his nail scratches at the low waist of his skinny jeans.

When they finally crash through the door, they don't even bother turning on the lights. Before he knows it, Patrek has Theon under him on his couch. Nothing but their hands are touching, though, only their clasped hands at the sides of Theon's head and then the tip of their noses as Patrek leans down to whisper into his mouth.

“So, did you like it? When she played with your ass?” He asks, voice light, like he isn't hard and eager over him. Even with the only light coming from the street lamp outside the kitchen window, Theon can see his bright blue eyes almost taken over by the black and it's such a thrill, Theon would probably let him do what he wants even if they weren't drunk.

He smirks up at him, licks his lips the way he knows makes people fall all over themselves. “I did. I let her fuck me with a strap-on the same night.”

Patrek groans at this, kisses him hard and wet. He lowers his body onto Theon, and then they're humping like two animals in heat. They separate to take their clothes off in a rush, but end up only pushing their pants to their thighs. Theon tries to direct things to the bedroom; they make it as far as the floor halfway there, in front of the door frame.

It's funny, really. They don't even go anywhere near his ass, which was the whole starting point of this little escapade. He comes into Patrek's tight fist and Patrek comes on his face. Theon almost has a heart attack when he realizes some got in his hair.

“Chill, you just need to wash it.” Patrek says, still panting on the floor like a moron, watching with a lopsided grin as Theon rushes to the bedroom after some tissues. He still has his khakis down. “I bet there's a ton of benefits to it. It's nutritious and stuff!”

“You're disgusting,” Theon says. The tissues are failing him, so he resigns himself to taking a shower even though it's nearly six in the morning and he wants to go straight to bed. He goes to the bathroom, kicking Patrek in the shin on his way. “You're sleeping on the couch.”

“Come on, man. We've shared fluids, I think we're okay sharing the bed.” Patrek laughs. He follows Theon to the bathroom, watches him getting under the water spray with a silly look on his face. The steam fogging the air makes him look stupid.

“Fuck. You.” Theon smiles. The warm water is mollifying him somewhat, but he's still annoyed. What's the goddamned point in hooking up with a guy if all he gets is jizz in his hair? And if he wanted to hear spunk jokes, he’d make them himself! That orgasm wasn't all that good.

“Theon, don't be like that. Let me make it up to you?” Patrek says. He knocks on the glass stall, tries to look contrite but ends up laughing. “Theeeeeeeeooooooooon.”

He rolls his eyes, but relents twenty minutes in, when Patrek starts whining and making puppy eyes. Patrek rushes to strip and gets in with a smirk. Theon lets Patrek pin him to the wall and kiss his neck as well. Patrek sighs in his collarbone, licks at the water trail racing down his skin, and a delicious shiver runs through Theon's whole body when he moves his big square hands down his spine and lower, to squeeze his ass.

Theon can't help it. He moans and pushes into Patrek's hands, urging him on, because this is too good. He wants more, now. For a glorious moment, Patrek seems to get on with the program. He turns Theon around, grabs his cheeks and starts to rub his dick between them, like a fucking tease.

“Grab the soap,” Theon struggles to say. Lube would be ideal, but he keeps it in the bedroom; they might end up fucking some other way if this takes too long. He won't risk it. When Patrek tries to go for a kiss, Theon pushes him into the soap dispenser direction instead.

He doesn't wait before leaning against the tiles and settling himself on his forearms, readying to take his weight and Patrek's. The water crashes down on him until Patrek comes back, looming over him. Theon smiles when he feels a hand grabbing his ass again, the first finger touching the rim, finally. But then Patrek stops moving it forward, just lets it rest there.

“Theon...” He says, hesitantly.

And what can he possibly be unsure about? Is he the one about to get fucked in the ass? Theon grits his teeth from frustration, then looks over his shoulder, making an actual effort not to show in his face that he wants to strangle Patrek.

“Yes?” He smiles, fake and full of teeth.

Patrek laughs at him, the tension eases from his brow almost completely.

“It's just... you know I'm not into men, right?” He says, slowly, like he needs to talk down to Theon to be understood. “I'm straight.”

And he pats Theon's ass comfortingly, the other hand still teasing Theon's rim.

Theon snorts through a groan and kicks at Patrek's leg.

“Yeah, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “Me too.”

“Oh, okay then!” Patrek chirps.

Thankfully, he needs no further assurance.

He isn't lying, no matter what Asha would have to say about _internalized homophobia_ , _self acceptance_ , _fluid sexualities_ or any of her boring dyke shit. She's been insufferable ever since she's started going to her LGBlah-blah support group even though she's dating a man. Theon wants to open his wrists every time she starts on it during their monthly lunch date.

Theon is straight. He likes women. Always has, ever since he discovered what cocks are for, always will. Nothing can change that.

He's man enough he can take some cock in the ass without turning gay. And he's secure enough in his masculinity that he can see it when dudes are objectively attractive. Like Patrek, for one. Or that guy who played Griff on that mini-series, the redhead one with the beard and the blue eyes. He is dreamy, and it's no skin off Theon's back to admit it inside his head.

Practically speaking, men are simply better equipped to sate this new desire than women. He's found out, after a very embarrassing visit to a sex shop the next town over and subsequent purchase, that he needs more than just the physical stimulus to get off that way. What he wants is to be held down and fucked, relinquish control and made to feel pleasure until his brain gives up on rational thought. Plus, how can a guy ask a stranger at a club if she has a strap-on in her purse? Kyra is hot, no doubt she has some mouth-watering moves, but even if she hadn’t fucked off to another continent, she's also made it clear pegging Theon is something for special occasions and she'd rather he eat her out, thank you very much.

That doesn't work for him at all. Sure, he still goes out with girls for some old-fashioned fucking, but Drowned God, does he lov– like it the other way around. He wants it, craves it, even. So it's only natural he takes steps to get it, right?

He's not so desperate he has tried picking up men at bars, but that's mostly because Patrek is more than willing to collaborate.

Patrek might not be Robb, can't be Robb, but he's a good bro. He doesn't ever make things weird. And it's not like they are counting on each other for sex. They still go clubbing together and are still each other's wingman. But if neither of them scores, or more often, if no one catches their eye, they have a go at Theon's apartment. And because they're friends, Theon is free to kick him out anytime or to let him cuddle with him in his bed, when he feels like it.

Before he knows it, they have a routine.

And it would probably freak Theon out a little, maybe, if he had time to think about it too long, that a man is one of his longest lasting affairs, but at least sleeping often with the same person has its perks: after the first drunken night, it somehow gets better and better; Patrek barely has to be told or guided anymore, he learns Theon's body and his tastes, he eventually shuts up with the pet names in bed and they're comfortable enough with each other that they try new stuff together. They try oral on each other to see what it feels like to go down on a guy, for giggles, and Theon tops when Patrek gets curious to see if anal is really all that. It's the drawing class all over again. Patrek is an uncultured barbarian about some things and Theon will just have to learn to live with that.

Of course they still do non-sexual friendship stuff, too. Patrek has had Theon watch all seven thousand seasons of _Mysteries of_ _Valyria_ and at Patrek’s insistence, they go train surfing on the subway a couple of times until Jeyne finds out and throws a huge tantrum over it. They have their own hangouts now, as well as ongoing different conversations on all their social media. They see each other at least four times a week, sometimes two or three days in a row. Theon hasn't spent so much time with anyone since Robb accidentally handcuffed them together after they went snooping through Ned's drawer for condoms.

He's met most of Patrek's crew by now; only the elusive Ed is yet to be seen, immersed in wedding preparations as he is.

“I've talked to him, though, you're invited to his stag party.” Patrek says, cuddling closer to Theon on the narrow bed. Theon is almost asleep, but he blinks a little at that, trying to wake up for this conversation. Patrek pats his arm and goes on before Theon has gathered his thoughts. “And no, it's not weird going to the party of somebody you've never met, in this case. We’re inviting everybody who's ever so much as breathed in the same room as him, to make it a bigger surprise. Marq invited his 60 year-old gardener.” Patrek sniggers into his neck. “We’re closing The Teats this Saturday. You're coming, right? I already told the guys you'd go, and Ed wants to meet you.”

In truth, Theon is too good to be seen in a place called The Teats; besides, it annoys him a little that Patrek has decided for him without even asking first. Okay, it annoys him so much his first reaction is to do the opposite just for kicks. But this Ed guy – all of Patrek's friends and Patrek himself, really – sounds really well-off, like Theon used to be before getting kicked out, and Patrek's friends have all been cool so far. Theon has barely had to tune them out at all.

Money plus chill people equals a good time for Theon.

“I am meeting with a friend this weekend.” He plays with Patrek's broad fingers. The weight of his arm over his waist is welcome most times, but suddenly it bothers him. He gets up, leaving the trap of Patrek's embrace. “I'll catch you there if I can.”

Theon can feel Patrek's gaze following him as he walks around naked, collecting the clothes they had thrown around haphazardly in their hurry. He hates to see his stuff wrinkled; he picks Patrek's too, after some consideration, since he's already doing it, then leaves it all neatly folded on top of the chair with the thrown pillows that usually lay on his bed. They’re neatly arranged, like the clothes – they’re ugly, but they were Dagmer’s attempt at a housewarming gift and must be given their due respect. Patrek is strictly forbidden to move them around.

When he looks back at last, Patrek has a strange, dumb smile on his lips.

“What?” Theon makes himself smile back and hopes it doesn't look as forced as it feels.

“Nothing important.” Patrek says. He lowers his blue eyes to the spot in the bed Theon had been laying on, then looks back at Theon with a more subdued grin. “I'll put your name on the list just in case.”

Robb knows about Patrek. Their friendship, that is, not his peculiar status as Theon's emergency cock.

It's not that Theon is ashamed. It's just that Robb, much like Asha, wouldn't understand the mechanics of how someone can be straight and simultaneously have regular, enthusiastic sex with another someone of the same gender.

He'd try to wrap his head around the concept, sure, for Theon's sake. It's Robb's nature to try to see the best in the most undeserving of people and Theon is deserving. In fact, he’s more deserving than anyone else Robb has given the benefit of the doubt to. Theon can see the confused but well-meaning frown in his mind when he's half-asleep and darker thoughts come knocking. In his imagination, Robb tries to understand, gives his best effort – _is this a situational thing, Theon, like all-male board schools, did you lose a bet, are you high, are you wasted, were you forced, do you need money, why not get a dildo how did this happen how, how,_ _howhowhow_ – and ends up apologizing, _sorry, Theon_ , but he doesn't feel he can keep being friends with him. After all the shit Theon has put them both through, this is just too much for Robb.

That's why, though he's completely, one hundred percent not ashamed, he has decided to keep it quiet. It's not like he needs to go advertising it! It's no one's business!

Sure, sometimes work is slow and he daydreams the most complicated scenarios where people find out. Telling Asha while she eats the smelly crab dish she always orders, just to see that funny face she makes when she's beyond frustrated with him and inevitably chokes on her food, becoming too traumatized to ever eat it again and freeing Theon from having to smell it forever. Patrek slipping up in front of his friends, putting his hands a little too low on Theon's back when they're out drinking as a group; sometimes this ends in everybody else recounting their own sexual affairs with other men, casual as all that, sometimes it goes straight into gang bang territory. Or his favorite: father finding out and having a stroke on the spot – he doesn't die, just becomes impotent, so it's not really evil.

Aside from the nights when he wakes up shaking and almost unable to breath, chest tight and pillow wet, he never even considers telling Robb.

He wasn't even going to tell him about Patrek's existence, beyond recounting how ridiculous he acts in class. But they video chat twice a week, have almost daily phone calls and text all the time. The first time Patrek tags him – in a video about the making of bells, of all goddamned things – it's not two minutes before Robb starts interrogating him and then the friendship cat is out of the bag.

He's just going to keep it on the down low while Robb is around, he decides, fidgeting with his sunglasses as Robb's train comes to a stop before him. He'll go back to regular fucking; Kyra is supposed to be back soon and she's always fun.

Strategy drawn, he squares his shoulders and starts to scan the crowd as people start to emerge from the train. There isn’t a ball of anxiety in his stomach, but he is a little queasy. It's only there's too many people leaving at this station, too much for a Friday afternoon, and they're loud and stink of confined spaces and stale coffee. It's the worst; it darkens Theon's mood considerably. He feels small in the middle of this mass of strangers, a lonely port in a moving ocean of grey bodies.

Somehow he misses Robb's auburn curls until he's right in front of him, tall and solid, bright blue eyes like two limpid pools.

Theon breaks into a grin so wide his cheeks start to hurt, bad mood instantly forgotten. Before he knows it, he's been enveloped by Robb's warmth, arms squeezing him against a hard chest. He starts laughing and hugs him back. The smell of recycled air on Robb's plaid blue and green shirt and stale coffee in Robb's breath as he laughs right back into Theon's hair is lovelier than even the scent of the sea.

He makes himself let go slowly, but he can't make himself stop smiling. Robb is smiling at him too. He lets Theon step back a little, but keeps clutching his arms so they are just grinning and holding onto each other like two loons.

“It's so great to see you, you have no idea!” Robb says. His voice is somehow deeper than Theon remembers from their last video call or the last time they saw each other face to face a whole year ago, when Robb visited for the first and only time. It took him forever to do it, between school and getting over Theon leaving Winterfell for a big city in the Riverlands.

He takes a moment to really look at Robb and almost gasps at how much he's changed. There's the obvious, like how he's at least three inches taller, towering easily over Theon, who's had exactly one teenage growth spurt. He's broader as well, his hair falls down to his shoulders, and he has a respectable beard, not the sad teenage attempt he used to persist on. He fills his lumberjack button-up and jeans nicely now. More than that, he's still his confident self, but somehow more contained, his vibrant energy much more centered and mesmerizing.

Robb is grown, Theon realizes, light-headed.

“Likewise, dude.” Theon congratulates himself on making his voice steady, although inside he is still a bit wobbly. “How about we get you something to eat that's not train swill?”

They walk to a cafe near the train station, hand in hand like when they were children because Robb is a touchy-feely guy on the best days and even more so after long periods away from people. Theon indulges him; he's a good bro like that.

“We should have breakfast food for lunch!” Robb smiles, squeezing Theon's hand.

“It's nearly three, Robb.” Theon rolls his eyes, trying for mocking and failing. The grin in his face ruins the attempt. “When did you become such a rebel?”

“I know, right?” Robb grins back. Everytime he does it, Theon thinks of toothpaste ads, even though Robb's teeth are ever so slightly crooked.

Because it's what Robb wants, they eat breakfast for a late lunch. Theon usually lives on a diet of black coffee and pettiness with the occasional frozen pizza thrown in, but he's in a good enough mood to actually eat, so he orders waffles with whipped cream and shares a bowl of fruit with Robb, who orders a ridiculous assortment of jams to go with his fuckton of bread, eggs, bacon and sausage, but thankfully still has enough of an appetite that Theon doesn't have to touch any apple slices.

It's not uncommon for Theon to lose track of the time when he's talking to Robb. It shouldn't be so, they talk almost everyday and Theon is more up to date than he'd like on the Stark family drama (Rickon has recently locked Arya and Sansa in the bathroom “to make them love each other”; it ended with both in tears and having to call the firemen to unstuck Arya from the bathroom window, then paying them handsomely to keep it quiet). He’s also up to date on Robb's life, a topic he’s actually interested in, but somehow they just always have so much to talk about. Hours pass like minutes. And it's funny because Theon is more of a listener, or a tunes-you-out-and-nods kinda guy. Even with Asha, with whom he does talk a considerable amount, it's more because he can't help it, can't help trying to have the last word, futile as it is. With Robb he can be a chatterbox and enjoy it.

Of course it bites him in the ass.

They're outside after leaving the cafe, walking around just because they can. Robb leads, even though he doesn't know the city or where they're going. He takes Theon's hand into his again and plays with his fingers. Theon's hand is as slender as he is, with long elegant fingers. An artist’s hands, his mother used to say. Yet Robb's hand dwarfs it. It's just bigger, broader, warmer. Soft but strong, like Robb himself, where Theon's is dry and covered in half-formed calluses.

The late summer sun is shining bright, no clouds above, and it catches Robb's hair just right, making it look like a halo.

Theon has his guard down. This is Robb. His belly is full, his brain a bit slow. Eating makes him sleepy. He is relaxed and he hadn't even realized how tense he was before, maybe has been for months. Now all his muscles are loose. His legs are noodles, snails can muster a faster pace than him. He is smiling.

Robb asks: “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

The way the sunlight touches his hair is distracting. It looks like it's on fire. Theon can't stop staring. Robb's hair is the most colorful thing in his line of sight, is all, and the breeze makes it dance so gently. Theon's mind is focused on it, on Robb's rough beard and the way his eyes look so blue surrounded by all this red, he isn't paying attention to what he's saying.

“Patrek.” He answers truthfully. Full of conviction.

Then he feels cold at once, realizing what he said as the word leaves his mouth. The world re-frames itself around him, soft to harsh in a second. Years of practice keep the smile on his face. They halt where they are, nearly blocking the entrance to an ice-cream shop. Robb is about to laugh, Theon can see, but then whatever he sees in Theon’s face makes him stop. He looks at him strangely, caught between confusion, surprise and some other emotion Theon can't name. He'd say anger, except Robb is an explosion when he is angry, not a silent gulp that makes the bone of his throat bob.

“Excuse me?” He sounds unsure, unlike his usual confident self. “You're doing your friend Patrek tomorrow night?”

Theon laughs at the phrasing. At his own panic and sheer stupidness. He laughs so hard soon there are tears in his eyes, to really convey how ridiculous the mere possibility is. It's funny, how he keeps digging his own grave, and it's funny that Robb is wrong, too.

It's more likely that Patrek will do him.

“Dude, what are you saying? There's a party.” He says, trying to recover. His voice is wheezy. “At some club a friend of Patrek's closed. I already said I'd go.”

Robb laughs too, sounding as fake as Theon's smile feels. People usually fall for his poker face, but Theon can see through him. He buys it, the little frown on his forehead says. He is a little relieved, but… There's something like disappointment on the corner of his mouth. Except it can't be, because what should he be disappointed about?

_Doesn't matter_ , Theon decides. He's just dodged the bullet he fired. And he didn't even lie! Technically, he's just going to the party, and if the Saturday routine kicks in...

“Well,” Robb says. He shakes his head, squeezes Theon's hand and it feels like an apology. He goes back to his easy smile. “Good to know.”

“Wanna tag along?” Theon asks on impulse. Just having Robb's warm hand holding his is grounding. It eases the unbelievable tension taking over his body, and he wants to do the same to Robb even though he doesn’t really want Robb at the party. “I'm sure they'd let you in.”

“I can't,” Robb says. They resume walking, only this time Theon nudges him into the right direction, silently relieved by the refusal. They have been dragging themselves around for a while, Robb pulling his luggage the whole time. They're close enough to a park now, it's early enough they can afford to sit and rest for a bit. “My uncle is having something for his bachelor party. A dinner, I think, with a few friends. He tried telling mom about it last week, but she told him to shut up about his skanks.”

“Hurricane Cat is at it again.” Theon laughs. He feels sorry for any siblings of Catelyn if they have even an ounce less force of personality than she does.

Robb looks pained. “Please, honey, I’m begging you.”

“Fine. Mrs. Stark is at it again. Better?” Theon smirks, rolling his eyes. He has to at least pretend to be annoyed.

“You could just call her by her name at this point, but yeah. She's been stressing about the logistics of getting everyone south of the Neck for the wedding. Everything else is secondary and she doesn't care for it. She's even relieved I decided to come down a few days earlier.” Robb smiles, clearly amused. “But that's pretty much how it goes between them. They love each other, but he's a bit of a manchild, and she's...”

“A mom?” Theon jokes. Then he smirks, stepping closer to Robb. “At least we know from where Sansa gets her approach to fraternal love.”

They laugh at that. Robb relinquishes Theon's hand to wrap an arm around his shoulders, letting his hand dangle about Theon's face. Theon leans on him, just a bit, and hugs Robb's waist. He's tired and it's easier to guide Robb around like this.

“Anyway. I'm expected to go, since I'm staying at grandpa's till dorms open. Uncle Edmure even sent a formal invite, to make sure I knew I was welcome,” he says. His breath makes Theon's hair fly. “It'd be more fun with you there–”

“Way more fun,” Theon agrees, plenty aware of how dull Edmure’s dinner will be, despite being a social event worth being covered in the news.

“– but if you're busy already, I'll manage.” He finishes, then sighs, playing with a lock of Theon's hair that flies into his fingers. “But I still have two weeks before college kicks off, and my family will go back North the week after the wedding. I can meet this Patrek another time.”

“What?” Theon splutters. “What do you want to meet him for?”

“Well, I'm curious. You're so picky about people. I want to meet anyone you can stand for more than two hours.” He smirks. “Plus, it's time I hog your friends for once.”

“Ha ha.” Theon deadpans. “I don't think you'll like him much. He's a bit of a bore.”

“Did you make this guy up? Is he your imaginary friend?” Robb teases, laughing when Theon shoves him, hard. He stumbles two steps and then comes back, putting his arm around Theon's waist and pulling him close. “If he exists, I want to meet him.”

“I'll arrange something,” Theon lies. Even though he has invited Robb to the mysterious Ed's party not two minutes ago, if he has anything to do with it, Robb and Patrek will never cross paths. The mere idea makes him cold sweat. “If he shows up in class today, we can all meet up at this bar I know after. I'll let you know either way.”

He knows for a fact Patrek will skip, because he's helping Marq with late minute preparations for Ed's party – it’s all very top secret and hush-hush, and Theon maybe didn’t pay attention when Patrek told him about the details. So one day less. He just has to keep Robb busy for the two weeks before he starts Medical School. Then his life will be so hectic he won't even remember Patrek exists.

“Let's hang out tomorrow anyway,” Robb says. “Will you pick something?”

Theon smiles, hugging Robb's waist again. “Sure.”

Robb has always been an outdoorsy person, athletic and competitive in equal measures. He was made the football team captain his sophomore year of high school and even earned a full sport scholarship to Winterfell SU. It surprised everybody but Theon when he turned it down for Medical School at Riverrun.

He used to always pick Theon first in their neighborhood games, even though Theon always got tackled any time he so much as looked at the ball. He much preferred archery, had even competed in high school. Still, in honor of their shared childhood shenanigans in contact sports and because he knows it will make Robb grin like a dolt, on Saturday morning Theon suggests they go watch a football match. The local tournament is ending, two more rounds before semifinals, but the start time of 10 am means most riverlanders are still working and Theon can buy tickets easily enough to watch Riverrun versus Stonehedge. However, once they're there and the game has started, they can barely pay attention to what's going on in the field because Theon can't stop making fun of the mascot.

“Shut up!” Robb hisses on his ear as their team scores and the people nearby start cheering, getting up from their seats and jumping around. He's wearing a cornflower blue cap with Riverrun written in red over a cartoon blob that could be any kind of fish, really, but it's supposed to be a trout. It goes well with his plain grey V-neck and the navy blue drawstring shorts. He pokes Theon on the ribs with a scowl on his face, but Theon can tell it's forced. “Football fans are intense. You can't just mock their mascots within hearing distance and expect no retribution.”

“It's not like that,” Theon whispers back. With all the excitement around them, he has to all but glue his lips to Robb's ear to be heard; Robb is ticklish and shivers every time Theon's lips brush his skin, which is greatly amusing, so he rubs his mouth on the shell of Robb's ear on purpose. “I'm not a monster, Robb, I don't want to make fun of them, but they chose a fish as their symbol all by themselves.”

“They forced your hand,” Robb deadpans. He tries to appear serious and disapproving. He even almost succeeds, most likely due to his experience as the ultimate older sibling, but then people start to sit down and the Riverrun Trout becomes visible again.

“Look, it's dancing!” Theon screams. Some people give them the stinky eye, but it's all worth it because Robb starts laughing like a madman. He slaps his thigh several times to express how funny he finds it, and then Theon's thigh too, by accident.

He wipes tears of mirth from his face, hand squeezing just above Theon's knee in a soothing gesture. “It's the Riverlands, you know? The land of rivers. We can't all pick wolves.”

Theon rolls his eyes to let him know exactly what he thinks of wolves as team mascots, but doesn't insist on it. “I still think they shouldn't have put legs on the costume. It would still be silly, but at least it wouldn't look like a mutant fish.”

“The person inside the costume has legs, honey,” Robb says, reasonably.

“Unprofessional.” Theon smirks when Robb snickers.

“Not everyone is as committed to aesthetics as you.” He shrugs, finally turns to the game proper, like everyone around them except for Theon, who has no interest in team sports, never has and never will.

He watches Robb's face instead. The only other option would be to play with his hand, but then Robb would realize he left it on Theon's thigh and be startled and embarrassed. Worse, he'd take it off and leave Theon untethered in the middle of all this football nuts. It's a matter of survivalto keep touching Robb. It's imperative.

“Speaking of aesthetics,” Robb picks up the conversation like it never stopped as soon as the referee pauses the game for some reason or another – Theon can't be bothered to know or find out. “Don't you have work on Saturday mornings?”

Theon snorts. Like he'll miss having Robb to himself before the rest of the Starks are South. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Robb squeezes his leg reflexively, thick eyebrows arching disbelievingly on his face, and Theon relents. “I took a few days off.”

More exactly, he called in sick since yesterday to meet Robb at the train station. A mental health vacation, if you will, though he had told his asshole boss he would have a minor surgical procedure. Even then Mr. Worm had been reluctant to sign it off. But Theon had insisted. Surely spending time with Robb is better to keep insanity at bay than dressing some air-headed socialite for husband-hunting, right? Or worse, snotty little brats for oiling ceremonies.

Really, had he told Justin that he wanted time off to meet with the Stark heir extraordinary and de facto royalty of the North… but that would mean his boss intruding in his Robb time, in his free time, so lying it was.

“Good.” Robb smiles at Theon, but turns his attention back to the game far too soon for Theon's taste. “You work hard, you deserve a break.”

He shrugs and flashes a smirk, but inside he feels warmer at the words. He doeswork hard, even if some people don't think his work is real work, and even if some people have said so to his face, just because he can keep smiley and polite till the end of his shift instead of murdering his clients. Like she could do better.

_Not even Robb would be able to do it_ , Theon thinks as he examines Robb's face again. He is watching the game intently and Theon can tell Riverrun is losing just by the way he is biting his cheek. It's Robb's team, or at least the team they're nominally cheering for today, but even as they lose Robb seems collected and controlled, unlike the people raging and making noise around them. Theon is sure he would snap at the first customer who changed their minds after the purchase is done and accused him of not listening to their request to begin with. Robb has a temper and he's unused to swallowing his reaction when people disrespect him.

He's unused to people disrespecting him, period. His very presence demands respect.

Maybe it's the way he irradiates honesty, though Theon knows he can lie like a rug. Or how he looks so broad and strong, a dependable man, the sort who'd never let people down, while also being caring and warm. Maybe that's why he'll be a doctor. Theon, guarded and judgmental as he is, and girly to boot if the opinion of all his relatives can be taken into account, can only aspire to sell clothes.

But Robb would never say Theon doesn't work hard, or that his work isn't worth doing. However true that may be.

Theon takes Robb's hand, the one massaging his leg distractedly, into his own.

“You should model for me again,” he says as casually as he can. “It's been ages.”

Robb turns from the game at those words, a reluctant smile on his lips.

“I'm sure you can find someone better,” he says. His cheeks are turning a light, charming pink.

Theon feels a bit naughty and a bit guilty at the sight. He's not leading Robb astray, he never would, but it feels like it all the same.

“I want you.” Theon smiles at him, trying for his most reassuring voice. The effect is broken when he can't resist rolling his eyes. “Come on, it's not like you to be shy.”

For a long moment, Robb seems to ponder the idea. Theon watches, mesmerized, the way he becomes redder and redder, blush spreading from his ears to under his T-shirt. Theon decides, before he even has an answer, that he needs to draw Robb with a blush like that.

“Yeah. Yes, okay. If you insist,” Robb says, quietly enough that Theon has to lean into his space to hear. He can feel Robb's breath on his cheek when he keeps talking, the stutter of it followed by a lungful of air inhaled. “Let's go to your apartment after the game.”

Theon smiles and nods. It's silly, but he is... satisfied. He can't explain why. It's not like getting Robb to agree to it is a great victory when Robb bends backwards for basically everyone who asks something from him. It does feel that way, however, enough that he behaves the rest of the game, content just to play with Robb's ridiculously broad hand till it ends.

The trek back to Theon's is a nightmare. First, a fight breaks out between Riverrun fans and Stonehedge fans – like they're rival gangs and the outcome of a football match is worth anything – right at the exit they're at. An actual fight too, with people throwing punches and kicks and bleeding all over the place. Theon preemptively steals Robb's stupid trout cap from his head and throws it away and then they're the ones fighting about it all the way to the subway.

“I saved your life, you ungrateful firecrotch,” Theon finally snaps at Robb. His smile has fallen and his eyes are pickling from the pollen in the air. He hates this stupid dry weather. “You were the one saying football fans are crazy, I'll just let someone beat you to a pulp next time!”

The car is packed full of people when they get in. Theon longingly thinks of riding on the outside, but in the end forces himself between a girl and some sad creep trying to look down her shirt. His ass touches the seat, barely. Robb stands in front of him, successfully staying upright more because the bodies around him don't allow movement than by holding onto the ceiling strap.

“Theon. Honey, please,” Robb says. He has a pained expression, the sorry he can't bring himself to say no doubt itching in his throat, like always. “I was out of line. Let me take you to lunch?”

The guy to Theon's left is glaring at them both in turns, but the girl looks interested, if not in Theon himself, then in their interaction. Her eyes show a flick of recognition, but she’s being cool about it. Theon considers chatting her up. She's not exactly pretty, barely has enough breasts to make the effort to check her cleavage worth it. But Theon is human. He likes positive attention as much as the next guy and he might as well let Robb suffer a little more before inevitably forgiving him, freeze him out a bit. It's a solid plan.

But then Robb would suffer.

Theon huffs and crosses his arms.

“Okay,” he mutters. He's not hungry. He's angry and impatient. He wants to draw Robb, not to have lunch, but if he doesn't let Robb try to make it up to him, it'll just eat him up inside and ruin both of their afternoons.

So they leave at the next stop. Theon swallows down his displeasure. Everything is fine, and it's no biggie if Robb is way too attached to ugly hats. He can deal, especially if it means being treated to a good meal. Robb chooses a fancy restaurant – the Three Spirals, Theon recognizes it as the one his boss favors for “business” dinners when he feels like eating on the company’s money – that will no doubt serve ridiculously tiny portions that will leave him hungry. The guilt must be immense. Theon is begrudgingly touched.

The nightmare is far from over, though.

It takes forever to get a table, so much that Robb's stomach starts to protest, loudly, while they're waiting at the bar. Theon never leaves his apartment badly dressed, he doesn't even own ugly clothes, but he is under-dressed in his black jeans, three quarter moss green button-down and double strap shoe, Robb even more so. He feels judged as they are led among businessmen and lawyers and whatnots who must have all had reservations (Robb's sneakers squeaking all the way there like a pair of ducks) to a terrible corner table almost behind a palm tree, near the bathrooms, even though they pass several empty tables. Eyes follow him and not in the sexy way. His cheeks hurt from a forced smirk.

Robb sits and gives him a nervous, hopeful smile.

Theon can't help relaxing a little. “All forgiven, gingersnap.” He pats Robb's hand over the table. Robb takes his hand, holds it as if to say _are you sure?_ , and Theon squeezes it back, _I'm sure_.

The waiter clears his throat and breaks whatever moment of sappiness was growing between them.

“I'll be back in a few moments,” he says with detached politeness, gives them menus and twin glares and disappears behind the palm leaves.

“Are all people in the Riverlands this rude?” Robb says after he's gone.

Theon snorts. “They think we can't afford to be here.”

They're right about Theon; he makes good money for a young adult with no degree not in construction work, but if he was paying they'd be getting a glass of tap water each and turning tail. Robb, however, is so filthy rich he can only blink at the idea of being mistaken for someone poor. Dressing to communicate his family owns half the North is a foreign concept to him, fashion disaster that he is.

He snorts. “Really? I wouldn't have come here if I couldn't pay.”

Theon rolls his eyes, a teasing comment ready to leave his lips, but then he freezes. He can only clutch at his chest – his heart starts racing, goddamn it! – as he watches Justin Massey leave the bathroom a few meters ahead. It's a miracle he doesn't see Theon.

“Theon? Are you alright?” Robb asks. His voice sounds worried, but also distant. “Your hand is clammy.”

“My boss is here!” Theon hisses. “My boss!”

“Oh,” Robb says. “I'm guessing your days off are not sanctioned?”

“They're sick days!” Theon confirms. He starts giggling, cold sweat running down his back. “Fuck. I'm going to lose my job.”

“You are not,” Robb says. Orders, really. Just the way his expression hardens, filled with resolve like he actually has any say in the matter, makes him look bigger. “Hide.”

There's nowhere to go, though. The cover offered by the palm tree is feeble at best. Theon slips under the table. He has to bite his knuckles to keep his laughter under control, but it's not enough, so he ends up with his face buried in Robb's knees, shoulders shaking. He smells like Hurricane Cat's favorite fabric softener.

“Which one is him?” Robb asks. In a normal volume, too, like it's not suspicious to talk to the empty chair in front of him.

“Blonde, purple dress shirt, brown suit pants, brown lace shoes. Ready to lick as many boots as necessary,” Theon describes, much lower. Robb puts one hand under the table and pets Theon's head reassuringly. It irks Theon how much the gesture comforts him. He has no choice but to stay there, kneeling at his best friend's feet, face buried into his trousers, thorn between mind-blowing panic and absolute, eerie calm.

“Oh, he's having a coffee!” Robb says, still far too loudly. “I think he'll leave soon.”

Theon bites Robb's meaty leg just above the knee to communicate Robb needs to shut it. And also because of how much Theon does notappreciate being in this situation just to appease Robb's guilt, Drowned God it's all his fault. Robb jumps in the chair when he feels Theon’s teeth, nearly topples it over. When the waiter approaches again, his volume goes down, but his voice sounds breathy, like he had been running, or like he's the one whose job is on the line.

“Have you decided, sir?” The waiter asks. He sounds nearly offended to have to do his job for who he must think is some penniless Northern who won’t tip well.

“I'll have the tomato soup and a salad for my friend, for starters. For the main you can bring the pork ribs and the lamb. Do you have any Arbor, aw!” Robb complains, pulling at Theon's hair a little when he bits him again. “A Dornish red, I meant to say.”

Theon can just imagine the face Robb has on right now. He must be giving the waiter his most charming smile, because there are only noises of agreement from the man. No question about the whereabouts of said friend, even with the way Robb's hand is still moving under the table and the sounds of Theon's muffled, renewed giggling.

“Anything else?” The waiter asks.

“A little privacy, thank you,” Robb says, nonchalant. His hand leaves Theon's hair and takes his wallet from his pocket. “And I'd like to be transferred to that table over there, where the gentleman in the purple shirt is sat, if that's alright. You may put his tab on this card.”

The waiter lets out a shocked gasp. Theon can hear the smile in his voice when he agrees. “Of course, Mr. Stark.”

“How much did you give him?” Theon whispers as soon as he sees the waiter's feet retreating in a rush. No one can see him, so he closes his eyes and rests his head on Robb's thigh when Robb goes back to petting his hair.

“Five dragons.”

Theon snorts. “That's some expensive fake blowjob.”

“Tell me about it.” Robb chuckles back. “Worth it.”

But that's not true, surely, because when Theon opens his eyes and looks at his lap – it’s right on his line of sight, alright? – there's a suspicious bulge in Robb's pants. No doubt the situation is getting to him – Robb has a history of getting boners when things get tense. Theon can hardly judge, being prone to laughing fits himself. They've spent many an hour hiding in closets in the Stark house just like this, with Robb hard and Theon giggling. Plus Robb is going on nineteen. Sometimes a change in the wind could make Theon hard at that age, he remembers, and probably so do his old roommates, who he used to traumatize on the regular.

Or maybe Robb just really likes getting bit.

And Theon is not into guys, even if he enjoys what a cock can do for him, but he can’t help noticing that Robb’s bulge is… substantial. He had never paid attention before.

_I like biting_ , Theon thinks out of nowhere, and before he has formed any further logical thoughts, much less a coherent reason why this is one of his classic BAD IDEASTM, he's already closing his teeth on the inside of Robb's thigh, hard, enough that he can really feel it through the cloth.

Robb whines, his dick jumps in his pants, and Theon starts laughing so hard he loses his breath and tears spring in his eyes. He doesn't stop, even when Robb clumsily pinches his nose shut under the table.

Drowned God, but Theon misses being rich. Even if this independent, family-free life of his has its perks, sometimes he thinks it would almost be worth it to swallow his pride and beg to go back, if only to have this kind of privilege again.

An example: one bribe and name-drop after labeling Robb a pauper and giving them the worst table at the place when it became clear they weren't going anywhere, their waiter is all smiles and pleasantries as he escorts them to the table Theon's boss was sitting at before being casually kicked out. The change in demeanor is noticed all around, too, and the snobs who side-eyed them before now forgive their presence with grace, squeaky sneakers and all. Slightly tented pants and all. Fake public sex act and all.

Theon bets that if he got under the table and finished Robb up, no one would bat an eyelid. He used to get away with shit like that all the time before being disinherited. Now he doesn’t dare pull anything similar, not on his service job salary, not at a place like this... but the idea makes him giddy with excitement and left-over adrenaline.

Crisis averted and emergency mode off, Robb notices his mood, but doesn't comment. He shoots Theon a look that's both fond and exasperated.

“I can't fucking take you anywhere,” he complains.

“Shut up, you almost cost me my job.” Theon kicks him under the table. “You'll have to make up for making up to me.”

“I don't see why. Your boss is gone. He didn't see you,” Robb replies. “Plus, I'm already paying for lunch.”

He must admit, lunch is good. Portions are microscopic, as Theon predicted. Robb looks dejectedly at his empty plate after he's done eating. Theon himself is full. In fact, he ate more than he usually would. Still, he feels a deep hunger clawing at his insides, at his stomach, his lower belly, his crotch. He declines dessert and has to watch impatiently, fingers twitching, as Robb takes his sweet time licking his spoon clean of ice cream.

Theon has never noticed before, but Robb's tongue is fucking long. Looooong. Ridiculously so. It’s a wonder it even fits inside his mouth, but then again, his mouth is big too.

He also has big feet, Theon thinks absentmindedly, for no reason whatsoever. He just can't help looking at Robb, cataloging him, because he's so very there after a long period of absence, and so very huge. Robb's even larger than Patrek, Theon would bet, but probably not taller; Patrek is one of the tallest guys Theon has ever seen.

Except Patrek doesn't have Robb's sheer presence and charisma that demands people pay attention to him and him alone.

As they leave, Robb paying and leaving their waiter charmed in his wake after finally calming down the situation in his pants, Theon is surprised to see people are not transfixed as Robb walks by. If anything, they look at Theon himself. Though that iscommon – expected, really – he is amazed people can just ignore Robb like that.

Theon can’t. He’s magnetized and also clearly the only one in the restaurant who is not an idiot. No surprises there.

“Let’s go to mine,” he says as soon as they are outside. “I have some new watercolors I want to try out.”

“So you haven’t forgotten about that?” Robb grins sheepishly and looks at their feet on the sidewalk instead of looking at Theon even as he finds and plays with Theon’s fingers. “Don’t blame me if I fall asleep again.”

Theon laughs. The tradition of Robb falling asleep as he models for Theon dates from the early days of their friendship, when Theon still insisted on burning his drawings in the Starks’ hearth after they were done so they didn’t get into trouble for doing girly stuff. Ironically, they did get into trouble for playing with fire eventually, but that hadn’t deterred Robb. The day following the greatest dressing down Ned Stark had ever given them, Robb had evaded Jon and taken Theon and all his sister’s crayons to his tree house, and promptly fallen asleep for three hours straight while Theon drew the impossible slope of his eyelashes over and over again.

For someone like Robb, who thrived on his physicality and enjoyed exercising and activity, it was a true sign of friendship to sit still for so long just to indulge Theon’s mediocre doodles.

Theon sniffles and curses the dry weather. “I suppose I’ll survive, but stay awake and I’ll let you see it after I am finished.”

They take a cab this time, unwilling to face the subway chaos once more. Theon can feel himself growing more and more restless with each turn they take. He is vibrating with so much energy by the time they are on his street that Robb has to take his hands in his to keep Theon from cracking his knuckles over and over again.

The driver keeps giving them suspicious looks on the rear-view mirror. Theon bites his lips to keep from laughing. He imagines the driver’s outraged face if he knew about the fake blowjob, imagines what he would do if Theon knelt between Robb’s legs right now behind the driver’s seat, and shoves his face on Robb’s warm chest to muffle his giggles. He feels more than he hears Robb sighing into his hair. One of his hands lets go of Theon’s and buries itself in it, massages the base of his neck.

He’s completely sober, they both are. Theon only had one glass of wine and ate plenty besides; Robb had sparkling water like a fucking septon. But he feels drunk and weightless with Robb’s warm broad hand holding him in place. The driver mutters something. Maybe. Theon doesn’t know. There’s the sound of Robb’s heart and his own maniac laughter as he rubs his face on Robb’s breast bone and claws at his tight like a cat. The rest is white noise.

Robb manages to keep it quiet while paying the driver, but he’s laughing out loud with Theon before the man is out of hearing distance. Robb lets out a snort and slaps his own leg that way he does when he finds something especially funny, and Theon feels a wave of fondness wash over him. He takes Robb’s hand and drags him into his building and upstairs before Robb can even adjust himself, not questioning why he’s even hard again ( _nineteen_ , Theon tells himself), just pulls him until they’re in front of his door, barely saying hi to the neighbors that glare at them and their joined hands in the elevator.

As he fumbles for the keys with Robb radiating warmth at his back, he has a sudden flashback of the way Patrek pressed himself to him the night they first got it on, how it happened against this very door.

_It’s not Patrek here, it’s Robb, just Robb, no funny business_ , he reminds himself. Only somehow that makes it worse and he keeps missing the keyhole just like that time, like he isdrunk, which is ridiculous. He doesn’t get this giddy when he drinks, he knows that much. His dick twitches on his pants, once, twice. He needs to close his eyes for a moment and breath deep before he can recover.

He snorts at the situation, but there is a hint of frustration to it. Robb’s hand at the small of his back – sudden and huge and warm even over the layer of his clothes – feels like a brand.

The scorching sensation fills him with renewed purpose.

“Are you alright there? Theon?” Robb asks, sounding worried.

Theon doesn’t answer, just slams the door open and pulls Robb inside by the collar of his T-shirt in a frenzy. He bypasses the couch completely, though his mind goes unbidden to images of fooling around right there on the cushions. He thinks of Patrek, of course, then of Kyra, Bessa and other girls whose name he didn’t bother to remember, to even learn, really. For some inscrutable reason they all morph into this image of Robb sitting there, afternoon light turning his hair orange. Probably because Robb is here right now, all warm and soft and with his pants tented again, poor thing.

There is a 99% chance that Theon’s neighbors saw him like that.

Well, at least he doesn’t live here.

He pushes Robb onto his narrow bed, on the ugly throw pillows, laughing as he falls on his back with an _oops!_ and ignores the abrupt impulse to fall on top of him, to lay over his body and rub himself all over him; to bite his neck, his chest, his full lips and see if he jumps as high as he did at the restaurant.

He’s not that mean, no, to give Robb such a scare. He’s just not above messing with him a little, for the fun of it.

“Okay, gingersnap,” Theon says decisively, stepping back from the bed. Robb’s stare weighs on him, making him clumsy as he pulls his desk chair back and starts gathering his watercolors. “Get your clothes off while I get some water.”

Robb stutters a shocked _what_ just as Theon leaves the bedroom. He grins to himself as he fills a plastic cup, only realizing how demented it looks when he catches a glance of himself in the mirror.

“We’re making an anatomy study!” he yells from the bathroom, trying to control his face. He sits on the toilet and buries his face on his knees until his laugh is winding down a little. He manages, just so, but the excitement in his chest doesn’t abate at all. “You owe me. And the soldier best be standing at attention!”

Theon hears a mortified groan from the bedroom and bites his lip to keep from laughing again. Robb can be remarkably prudish. He has never asked Theon about his conquests, though he listens willingly, even eagerly, when Theon tells him all the details unprompted. He has refused to share anything about his own affairs. Every inch of bared skin Theon showed on the rare warm days in the North was met with embarrassed disapproval and a refusal to shed even a single layer. Theon only knows Robb’s not a virgin because he was the one Robb had asked, red as a beet, if it was normal for a guy to not last the first time putting it in. It’s Hurricane Cat’s influence on him, in Theon’s opinion, her and her Seven who think sex is dirty unless it serves to make precious red-headed children. Like the Mother and Father didn’t fuck the other five into existence.

It only means that Theon must tease him at every opportunity, of course. He’ll either toughen up one day or he’ll keep making it way too easy for Theon to have a laugh at his expense for eternity. Win-win scenario.

He can picture Robb’s face perfectly in his mind. He’ll be turning redder by the second, down his chest and torso, till he’s so pink he might as well be sun-burnt. Theon composes himself somewhat and makes himself go to the bedroom with a placid smile.

The plan is to end Robb’s misery. Theon is not completely heartless and Robb ishis best bro after all. He can probably talk Robb into posing naked when he doesn’t have a boner. This will be one of the many stories to not tell the grandchildren. A private joke.

When he reaches the doorway, the glass slips from his limp fingers. Distantly, he wonders if the water will ruin his wooden floors. The part of his brain forever worried about appearances is preemptively upset about the possibility of the stain, but he can’t make himself move to dry the spot, can’t even stop his mouth from hanging open in surprise. It takes a while to remember how to breathe and the next inhale turns into a strangled cough. Every decision-making process has stopped. His blood has all rushed south, straight to his cock.

Robb is lying naked on his bed.

He isn’t looking at Theon, but staring fixedly at the ceiling. Small mercies, because Theon can’t stop looking at him, all of him, smooth expanse of skin over hard angles and muscles and a little padding, hairs darker than on his head curling thick on his chest and down his belly.

His face is calm as anything. He’s holding a single throw pillow between his legs very pointedly. That makes Theon so irrationally angry for a moment that he wants to climb on the bed, on Robb’s lap, and tear the stupid piece of fabric and feathers apart with his teeth. Why the fuck does he even have the throw pillows in here anyway? They’re obviously meant to go on the couch? What was he thinking?! Theon wants to slap himself.

Robb may be the best masculine model Theon will ever get his hands on; everything about him is perfect. Somehow Robb became a man when Theon wasn’t looking, and he can’t see his cock because of what? Some stupid belief neither of them hold? His bad decorative choices?

He’s about to do something he’ll deny regretting later when he spots the slightest upturn to Robb’s lips. And then Theon knows, suddenly and with utmost certainty, that he has stepped into the world’s most fucked up game of chicken. Robb is playing him and Theon was this close to falling for it.

But he knows the rules. Whoever backs down first loses. Well, no way he’ll do it now. He’ll make the earth open and descend the fiery stairs to hell before he lets Robb put his pants back on.

Theon takes his time draining the water from the floor and getting more from the bathroom. When he goes back at last, he’s calmer, focused and has had the opportunity to adjust himself, thank the Drowned God.

“You might as well let go of that.” Theon coughs, walking to the chair and sitting down, sketch book positioned just so on his lap that the bulge in his pants is hidden. He’ll keep his cool if it kills him. “Unless you have something to be ashamed of...”

“Nah, don’t wanna scare you away,” Robb says, refusing the bait. “This might be more than you can handle.”

Theon tuts disapprovingly, ignoring the memory of what he saw under the table, but doesn’t insist. He should, really, but he only makes himself smile when Robb finally looks at him inquisitively, resisting the desire to touch himself. It’s no trouble to smile, actually. So he has a hard-on near his best friend, possibly because of him. So what? Robb has done the same a lot of times. Theon might not be nineteen, but he is young; it’s normal to be horny. In fact, he’s been much hornier in his life, this is just a hiccup. His body is used to being fucked sore precisely this day of the week and he knows first hand the effects a nice cock and strong arms can have. It’s only natural. A pavlovian response.

He has been imagining what tons of guys are packing lately, wondering if they’d be any good at it. It’s pure scientific curiosity. Robb’s not special. He only has himself and Patrek for practical comparison and Patrek could have been a bit thicker, he can admit while he’s being honest with himself; of course the mind wanders.

But if he asks again, Robb will either A) chicken out, lose the game and pull his clothes (all of them!) back on, leaving Theon without a model, or B) take off the pillow and kill Theon instantly.

No option is great for Theon’s well-being, so he just puts off choosing.

“Hold that position,” he instructs, mouth dry but voice steady.

Bless his soft northern heart, Robb complies. He doesn’t fall asleep at all this time, though. He doesn’t talk, barely moves a muscle. Oh, no. If only. Instead, he gives Theon such an intense stare the whole time that he feels weak. His cock throbs. Constantly. To make things even bet– worse, the light in the room is excellent, all warm oranges and golden yellows that compliment Robb’s serious frown so nicely that Theon has to fight the urge to get up and lick from his belly to his stubbly chin.

But he still has some semblance of self-control, so he pours all his energies into work instead of molesting his best friend.

It’s like the spirit of Art itself has possessed his hands. Or maybe he should just make a habit of sketching when he’s unbearably turned on, because for the first time in his life he’s truly satisfied with the image building on paper. For once every line is precise, every curve is smooth and certain. When he switches to the watercolors, he feels the difference of having the good stuff imported from Braavos instantly. He owes Kyra something nice for her birthday.

It’s almost – almost – good enough to capture the vibrancy of Robb’s red hair, the softness of his peach skin, but not quite. The weight of his stare evades Theon completely. It refuses to stay on the paper, jumping out and traveling Theon’s body, under his clothes, over his skin. It leaves him feverish. He is not really bothered by it. The need to register the image in front of him is too great to leave room for anything else. He even forgets his hard cock for all of five minutes, he’s so focused on getting it right, until Robb moves slightly, nearly imperceptibly, to press the pillow harder over himself.

Theon hesitates, mouth going dry. The brush hovers over the paper like an orange-tinted threat.

The throw pillow is a deep metallic mauve that Dagmer had chosen precisely for the color, because in his own words, _Theon loves purple_. It’s truly hideous, but Theon has, in a fit of uncomfortable sentimentality he hopes to never experience again, grown quite attached to it. Only suddenly he hates it and hates being reminded of its existence. To add insult to injury, it clashes horribly with Robb’s everything. Theon refuses to put it in his drawing.

“This is really not your color,” he comments, voice hoarse from being quiet too long. He doesn’t know what time it is, only that the light coming in through the window is fading.

Robb blinks, awakening from the trance that has him pining Theon to the chair with his gaze. He smiles one of his charming boyish grins and at once the animal intensity is hidden behind baby blue eyes. Theon nearly gets whiplash from the change.

“Your pillow, your color.” He shrugs. “Though I like the pink one.”

Theon arches an eyebrow, incredulous.

“It’s salmon, you heathen.” He snorts. “It’s a wonder you got your driving license, with this level of colorblindness.”

“Well, Dad’s governor, so.” The smile grows even brighter, bigger. “Do you want me to trade it for one of the green ones?”

For a second, Theon is reluctantly impressed that Robb knows the green one would suit him. The next, he remembers he wants no pillow at all, what he wants is to see Robb’s cock. For aesthetic reasons.

He gulps, sucking on the clean tip of the brush while he ponders.

Robb sucks on his lower lip in turn and presses the pillow over his lap again. When Theon stays quiet, not daring to tell him to keep the position, not even daring to move, he sits up, one broad hairy hand supporting his weight and the other still over the damn pillow.

“You know I’ll do whatever you want, honey,” he rasps, sucking on the corner of his bottom lip again. “But you have to ask. I won’t assume anything.”

Theon is melting inside his clothes. He’s never felt warmer in his life, his body can’t contain the level of heat he’s experiencing right now. He can see it in his mind: he throws his expensive art supplies aside, wooden floor be damned, flings the pillow to the other side of the room and climbs on Robb’s lap. And the Robb in his mind lets him, eager for it.

The Robb in his room is looking at him intently, waiting for a sign, an answer, something. Maybe he’d let Theon do as he pleases. He’s bad at saying no to Theon, he has always been. Maybe he’d allow the dream space of his head to merge into their reality.

The possibility leaves Theon light-headed. Not only see Robb’s cock, but touch it too, touch all of him...

He bets he’d be better than Patrek.

Theon tries to give him a reply, he even opens his mouth. All that leaves him is a whine. He’s too over-heated to think, too turned on, clumsy with arousal. He notices he’s crumpling the sheet of his precious drawing and spins the chair around to leave it on his desk.

He doesn’t know when wanting to look at Robb naked turned into wanting to sex him up. That doesn’t even matter. The scary part is that he can’t think of a single reason why begging Robb to have sex with him is a bad idea.

Oh, he knows he has reasons. Something about a friendship, Robb being closer than a brother, about him being one of the two people to ever give a fuck about Theon spontaneously, yadda yadda. Everything pales in comparison to how much he wants.

When he turns around, he decides, he’s going to jump into his bed and get that pillow and if Robb has a problem with it, well, he’ll either say no or knock Theon out cold. He’s certainly strong enough.

He might just not be that merciful.

His heart races on his chest; blood thunders on his ears. He spins the chair back and Robb isn’t looking at him anymore, intensely or otherwise. In fact, he’s frowning at his pants, which he has left neatly folded with the rest of his clothes, even his underwear, on top of the other pillows he’s shoved to the floor. Theon hadn’t even noticed it before. He’s about to ask what’s so interesting about it when he finally registers the annoying ringtone.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer it?” He snaps, after being ignored for a full minute.

Theon can’t even say why he’s so suddenly cross. Probably because this ringtone is the most annoying he’s ever heard in his life, no doubt something programmed automatically that Robb has never bothered to change. Theon would like to find whoever composed the tune, walk to their house and murder them personally.

Robb arches an unimpressed eyebrow at him but gets up to reach his clothes. He takes the stupid, worthless, fucking ridiculous pillow with him. Theon wants to scream.

What makes the words die on his throat is the sight. Has Robb always had such a round, bitable ass? Has it ever been so hairy, with those deep dimples that would be perfect to rest, say, a heel on if Robb had someone on their back on a bed? Theon can feel himself growing harder in his pants and redder on his cheeks. Another whine escapes him and he crosses his legs, subtle as a brick to the face, wondering how come this is his life. He is sure he used to be smooth. This newfound irreverence of Robb’s about nudity will be bad for Theon’s health, he just knows. And he’s just started feeling relief that Robb’s attention is on his phone and not on him – not. on. him. – even as he misses the weight of his gaze already, when Robb just. Rejects the call.

He turns back to Theon with a serious frown this time. It softens into a somewhat amused smirk nearly instantly as he walks back to the bed, looking at him.

Right. So maybe the chances he missed Theon’s ogling are slim, but surely they do exist?

Theon focuses on the creases the bedspread makes from shifting under Robb’s weight, and of course the pillow is still in place, of fucking course. He can’t look Robb in the eye right now, possibly never again.

He has the gall to pat the bed, right next to him. Theon ignores the invitation, though that doesn’t deter Robb at all.

“Honey, I think it’s time we have a talk.”

Theon very much does not want that, but what can he say? _I’d rather pant after you than talk about it, and can you not make it weird, please?_ Just a moment earlier, he was planning to get Robb to fuck him, to actually tap that, but now he can’t comprehend why he thought that would be a good idea. He rakes his brain up for excuses – for why he can’t talk, for why he is so aroused – but comes up empty.

He doesn’t have to, however. The phone rings again. And when Robb rejects it again, it starts ringing once more. In the end, he takes the call when Theon waves towards the phone.

“Edmure, this is not a good time,” he says as a greeting, rolling his eyes. Cutting. Pissed. Theon would probably sulk a whole year if Robb talked to him like that, but Edmure doesn’t seem to mind. He goes on and on, undisturbed, while Robb frowns and rubs the line between his eyebrows, barely getting any word in edgewise.

Theon bites his painted nails to fight off the urge to smooth away the wrinkle for him.

“Yeah, I don’t know… listen – something has come up,” he says on the phone, looking at Theon. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it– no, no, it’s fine, no need to send a cab, Ed. Listen to me. Listen. I don’t think I can go with you.”

“You’re going!” Theon immediately screeches. When Robb makes an incredulous sound at the back of his throat and takes the cell off his ear with no warning for poor Edmure, he goes on. “No way you’re missing your uncle’s dinner to talk to me. We talk all the time! Hurricane Cat would take her apex predator form and track me down to kill me.”

“She’d do no such thing,” Robb protests, but goes back to his call – Edmure has fallen quiet at last – and says: “I’ll take a cab here, it’ll be quicker.”

When he finally lets the pillow go to put his clothes on, he’s turned away. Theon watches him in silence, feeling a little relieved and a lot bereft. Sure he doesn’t want to talk to Robb about his boner, but he wants even less for him to go.

“But my drawing,” he protests, weakly.

Robb makes a face at him, looking pointedly at the sheet and paints resting on Theon’s desk, untouched for a while now.

“We’ll get back to it after the wedding, okay?” He says, tying his shoes. His absurd large shoes. “And we’re having that talk. No, don’t try it. That’s final. Maybe it’s better this way, we’ll have some time to gather our thoughts.”

Theon closes his mouth, complaint swallowed down. He’ll have time to work himself into a state of anxiety unknown to humankind, more likely. That or he’ll drink himself into a stupor so he doesn’t have to think about it.

Fully dressed, Robb approaches the chair and crouches in front of him with nothing of the annoyance or coldness he had shown his uncle. He’s always considerate, always surprisingly gentle to Theon.

“It won’t be so bad, don’t worry.” He smiles. “I don’t think it’ll be bad at all! It’ll be good for the two of us. We’re long overdue.”

He leans over then and for a crazy, dream-like moment, Theon thinks Robb is going to kiss him. He just has a look on his face, something like the intensity from when he had been posing for him, the fierceness. And he does kiss Theon – on the forehead, lightly, a chaste but long-lasting touch.

The hairs of his beard tickle Theon, not soft but not coarse. Something in between. Theon bites his lips and closes his eyes, heart drumming a wild rhythm at his throat. He can almost feel the sensation all over his body.

“See you soon,” Robb says. He takes a step back, but his hand lingers on Theon’s face, caressing the contours of it, from his temple to his jaw, before dropping away. Theon nods, opening his eyes the tiniest fraction, to see Robb walking through the door.

He goes, taking all the warmth and the rest of sunlight with him, but leaving that gnawing hunger inside Theon that needs filling right now.

He lets go of his breath – he doesn’t recall holding it – and listens for the sound of the door closing so he can finally move. When it does, he all but runs to the dresser, to unburry the dildo from his underwear drawer and do nothing but fuck himself on it until it’s time to leave for Patrek's friend’s party.

If he has his face buried on his mauve pillow the whole time, that’s just because it was already there.

As it turns out, Theon is not too good for The Teats.

The Teats, in fact, is right up his alley. Yes, it does have a very big, very round pair of breasts right at the front of the club. Yes, they do blink with neon lights in turns, one nipple glowing yellow while the other darkens. Yes, it is tacky as hell, however… compelling of a design choice. But he doesn’t need his hangouts to be classy. The things he does need – quick entrance lines, cheap drinks, good dancing music way louder than the human ear should be able to take, loud enough to make his internal organs vibrate in his ribcage – are all provided in spades.

Tonight, he has made the executive decision not to care. If all goes well, he might be able to keep it up until Monday or Tuesday, when Robb will no doubt demand an explanation until he damn well has one, even though Theon has been ignoring hisawkward, ill-timed boners since puberty, the injustice of it! He knows how it’ll go. Theon will end up spilling his guts, because this is Robb and he won’t stand for anything less, and Theon’s newfound fascination with cocks will come to light, with disastrous consequences friendship-wise, no doubt.

He refuses to care. Nothing good ever comes of caring. If the world must come crashing down, he’d rather spend the last hours of it dancing instead of weeping for a lost cause.

Plus, he has other priorities that need fulfilling right now to waste time being sad.

Namely, he’s so unbelievably horny it’s a wonder he’s thinking straight. The dildo has done nothing to abate it, only leaving him eager and far too desperate. So while he is still in line, he decides his first order of business is to find Patrek. His ass is sore, but not nearly sore enough he can’t stand to be fucked in a bathroom stall; actually, that sounds exactly like what he wants, what he needs, even. Ergo, Patrek.

Then he steps inside the club and it becomes apparent that Ed’s friends were serious about getting everyone he knows even tangentially to party with him.

The invite list is not fictitious; Theon has seen his name on it, kinda, and the bouncer at the front had checked it before letting him in. His name had been neatly written down in the Gs: _Greyjoie, Theo,_ glaringly wrong but there between _Grell, Desmond_ and _Heddle, Jon_. Even so, the place is packed full. His plans to find Patrek right away are immediately derailed. Theon makes a cursory round in the periphery of the dance-floor and, when that fails, a beeline for the bar. Change of plan. If circumstances force him to seek some anonymous cock, he needs to be good and pissed beforehand.

But Patrek comes to his rescue.

Theon is on his second shot of tequila after elbowing his way to the counter when he’s unexpectedly attacked from behind. Muscular arms wrap around his chest and someone sucks a wet hickey behind his ear, possibly eating half his hair in the process. Before he can panic for real, Patrek’s handsome smiling face appears on his line of sight, though he’s still squeezing the air out of Theon.

“You made it!” He yells, so loud and so near his ear he can even be heard over the music. “I thought I had seen that pretty crown of head!”

_Thank the Drowned God for tall people_ , Theon thinks. He sorta wishes Patrek was less strong than he is tall, though, because next thing, while still hugging Theon immobile, he leans over and steals the lime between Theon’s lips with a kiss, even though they’re surrounded by a horde on all sides, trying to lick into his mouth.

Theon has no other option, so he just sits there and waits for him to be done, eyes open and sharing an uncomfortable look with the barman while Patrek slobbers all over his face.

It’s uncomfortable for him, that is. The man behind the counter looks too tired to care beyond mouthing _security?_ at him. When Theon gives him the slightest head shake, he turns to another customer with the look of a person who has witnessed enough drunken people humping in public to last a life-time. A true thousand-yard stare.

Theon is not altruist enough to give a shit on a normal day, and he is not now. He has other concerns. The first of them being, annoyingly enough, that Patrek's pathetic drunk groping is getting to him.

It’s mostly left-over arousal, in all likelihood, because Patrek is not having a good day coordination-wise and doesn’t look as good as he normally does, but Theon goes for broke anyway. He finally kisses back, only stopping briefly to spit the lime slice on someone to his right. The shout of complaint reaches him only faintly, but there’s no further retribution. Everyone around is too drunk to care about half-eaten fruit hitting them, much less about dudes making out. He has a quick look around to check, but they might as well be invisible. No one cares. No one minds. Not the crowd, too happy and cheery from Ed’s friend’s generosity, not Patrek, well-past plastered, and for once not Theon, on his way there.

No one needs to talk, not even a little, and it’s beautiful. _Take that, firecrotch_. Theon laughs happily into Patrek’s mouth, feeling lighter, until people wanting alcohol start shoving at them.

They break the kiss and take a few steps back, grinning.

“I’m so happy you’re here!” Patrek shouts. Boy, does he have some lungs on him. It’s easy to hear him even over the music. “Come on, I want you to meet Ed! He’s gonna love you, man! You’re the coolest!”

“Bathroom first!” Theon yells back, pulling Patrek down to his level with a tug on his neck to do it on his ear.

Patrek looks uncomprehending. “I thought you hated club bathrooms?”

Theon rolls his eyes.

“People have sex in club bathrooms!” He yells in his ear again.

Patrek nods, agreeing quickly. “Exactly! You hate it! Because people piss near the sex.” And then he starts to drag Theon somewhere away from the bathroom signs by the hand despite Theon’s numerous efforts to get free. Figures he’s capable of remembering the life and opinions of Theon Greyjoy without batting an eyelid, but not of getting his meaning.

Somewhere is the VIP section, where Ed and his crew are holding court. It’s no more than a platform, but it overlooks the whole floor, spamming the entire width of the club with solid-looking stairs at each end, both guarded by more bouncers.

It has a literal red carpet leading up. He sees it when they make it there. It also has flow-y, sheer curtains hiding the people there from the unwashed masses dancing, drinking and rutting below. Theon starts to giggle uncontrollably and is only a bit disappointed that Patrek doesn’t find it as funny. He doesn’t laugh at all, but starts shouting _ED! ED! ED!_ without pause when they’re on the last steps, even when Theon slaps his arm to make him stop.

Miraculously, Ed shows up at the top of the stairs in a hideous striped blazer, blue shirt and pants, mere five steps above them, smiling wide and guileless, clearly drunk off his mind by the way he smashes on the wall and then sways in place in a mostly successful attempt at staying upright.

Theon’s first thought is _he’s handsome_ , followed by _he looks fucking familiar_.

It’s not his fault that his brain refuses to connect the dots at first. He’s been drinking, he’s sexually frustrated, the music is drumming into his bones like hammers of disco and it’s dark but for the flash of colors that only make everything more confusing. Not the scenario most conducive to rational thinking. So he might be forgiven for taking his sweet time to notice the obvious.

Then he does, two steps later, and his knees nearly give away under him.

Patrek's friend Ed is Edmure Tully. Edmure Tully, who is Robb’s uncle. Whose dinner party is actually a night out. Which Robb must be attending.

“No! Nononononono,” Theon says, trying to tug his arm free from Patrek's grasp even though it was the only thing stopping him from falling on his face a second ago.

Unsurprisingly, he fails. The grip on his wrist is unrelenting and his pleas go unheard. Before he knows it, he’s being dragged up the last steps to the platform and his arm is being squished between two drunken, grinning furnaces as they greet each other.

It’s a fairly complex ritual involving more handshaking, squeezes and even little kisses than Theon would have thought possible for any heterosexual man, much less two of them. But then again, Patrek's gang are all like that.

He is an unwilling participant. He’s not usually so touchy-feely, especially not with strangers, especially not with sweaty strangers. But Patrek still hasn’t let go. Edmure takes notice of the extra appendage resting awkwardly by his chest area – _side-note_ , Theon thinks crazily to himself, _find out about Edmure’s training regimen_ –, follows it to the origins and finds Theon there with his unfocused gaze.

Theon gives him an unsure wave.

Edmure immediately loses any uncertainty about the situation and gives him a broad grin so reminiscing of Robb that it hurts. It makes no sense, because his teeth are two straight white rows on his mouth, unlike Robb’s crooked smile, and he has nothing of Robb’s magnetic intensity. Still, he proves himself to have the same warmth as he lunges at Theon and hugs him like they’re the best of friends.

“Welcome!” He shouts on Theon’s ear, patting his back as much as he did to Patrek, who grins behind Edmure’s shoulder and squeezes Theon’s hand.

“Congratulations on the wedding!”

It’s all he can think to say back, because he’s a cliche. A knot is still forming on his stomach. Everytime he thinks it’s done twisting, it tightens just that little bit more.

Robb is here. He has to be.

Edmure doesn’t seem to mind, or to notice, his ineptitude. He lets Theon go at last with one final kiss to his temple and holds him by the shoulders, arms stretched out to give them some distance as he unabashedly looks Theon up and down. It would be threatening, being so openly evaluated, if Edmure didn’t look so friendly and happy.

“Thanks!” He yells, like Theon has done him some wonderfully generous favor by acknowledging the impending ceremony in the most formulaic way possible. “I’m the luckiest man alive!”

He sounds so earnest. So sincere. Theon feels like throwing up even as his well-trained smile pulls at his cheeks. Someone should tell this man he’s an idiot. He needs it so, so badly. Someone should warn him and none of his stupid friends seem up to the task. Maybe Theon could share some common-sense with him before the night is over, or some family tales.

“I’m Theon. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you!” Edmure echoes, or so Theon guesses. His voice doesn’t carry over the noise, so Theon is left making the effort to read his lips. “You’re so famous around here, the guys won’t shut up about you.”

“I’ll kill those fuckers dead,” Theon replies. He dreads whatever rumors are being spread about him for the second it takes to remember that he doesn’t care, even if they might be true.

Edmure laughs and finally lets him go.

“Come on, let’s drink. For my health!”

He turns around, waving them over, and they follow him hand in wrist, cutting through the crowd, thick even here, in the worst VIP section Theon has ever seen in all his years of clubbing. It has too many people, too little light, and no soundproofing whatsoever.

None of this fazes Edmure’s friends. They are all talking cheerily among themselves when Patrek and Theon reach them, sitting on some couches that have been pulled together in a circle. Theon doubts they can really hear each other, much less understand what is being said, but they all look glad to be squished together and make noise.

Robb is with them, looking as sullen as Theon’s ever seen him.

It’s not even that sullen, considering, but Theon feels a sudden spark of tenderness over the low-level arousal he’s been fighting this whole time. He’d bet anything the poor man had appointed himself designated driver before realizing what he was getting into and is now stuck watching as everyone has a good time, except for him. No booze, no food and no one who talks sense. Theon would be in a bad mood too.

Yet his face opens like a summer sky when he sees Theon.

He looks handsome, if posh, in his corduroy pants, green polo shirt and moccasins. Even his curls and beard look somewhat tamed. It’s a sign he’s sober, how put-together he looks in comparison to the others, who have all at this point spilled a drink or twenty over themselves. Another sign he’s sober: he gets how they came to be in this situation at once. Theon can see the understanding in his eyes. His smile turns tentative, probably remembering their unfinished business, but not even Robb would insist on having a serious conversation during his uncle’s stag party, right? While Theon is drunk, no less.

_I need to get drunker_ , Theon realizes. Nothing like playing it safe.

“I was promised drinks!” Theon yells as a general greeting.

He gets a cheer of approval. Robb starts to get up, Drowned God knows why, but that’s all prodding the rest of the group needs to do the same and try to make room for the new arrivals. They’ve all but piled over each other as they are and someone braver than the others – one of the Vances for sure – is sitting on the floor, but no one else has followed his example.

Theon is about to, even though Robb has somehow managed to save him half a seat and the floor is sticky even from a distance. He can always say he didn’t feel like walking all the way around to it if asked. He can always say he doesn’t care about his beloved designer skinny jeans.

But then Patrek – the bastard has gotten a seat somehow – reminds Theon they’re still effectively holding hands by pulling him into his lap.

Again, no one thinks anything of that. Most of them have an arm or a leg over each other, invading all sorts of personal bubbles. Marq has decided to lay over Edmure’s, Robert’s and Lucas’ laps when all seats disappeared, and everyone laughs. It’s normal. It’s great fun.

Robb looks at Theon with the lightest of frowns, confusion written all over his face. Then his gaze shifts slightly, first to Patrek and then to Patrek's hand rubbing the inside of Theon’s wrist, and turns from inquiring to pissed off in a second.

Damn, but that’s a good look on him.

Theon is reminded, quite rudely, that he’s horny enough to consider public-bathroom sex. Someone puts a beer on his free hand. He chugs it down even though it tastes terrible, welcoming the respite from the heat and letting the conversation wash over him, not making much of an effort to participate beyond ribbing his neighbor – the other Vance – when the opportunity presents itself. The beer is followed by another, and before he’s done with it he’s too drunk to care about the taste or about the bizarro world he’s entered.

Maybe that’s why he fails to be properly alarmed when Patrek's hand slides from his wrist to his thigh.

Then again, no one is alarmed. No one so much as blinks. They’re all too busy trying to convince Edmure to cheat on dear sweet Roslin, as tonight is his last one as a free man, to even notice. Theon doesn’t think that’s how it works; everytime he was caught with someone’s girlfriend or fiancée no one thought it was less cheating than when he was caught with someone’s wife, but he keeps quiet. He doesn’t want to call attention to himself, not when Patrek's hand is rubbing insistently from knee to hip, so broad and soft, warm even through Theon’s skinny jeans, and oh fuck, he’s going to get a hard-on in the vicinity of these losers any minute now. He hates his life.

He all but checks out of the conversation, willing himself to calm down enough to excuse himself or better yet, to slip away unnoticed as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

Except that last part would be impossible, of course. Robb’s eyes bore into him like an arrowhead.

Not that Theon returns the look. He can’t.

Patrek's hand travels to the inside of his thigh, fingertips scratching just the way Theon likes it, and he rubs his nose lightly on Theon’s nape. His other arm pulls him closer and there it is, the length of his cock against Theon’s ass. He catches Patrek’s hand before it slips to the V of his legs and squeezes it, trying to ground himself. Robb’s gaze is searing hot on his body. Scorching. It’s almost worse than in the afternoon, because then Theon didn’t have the sensation of another body trying to discreetly grind on his, setting his nerves alight. He’s officially in boner territory now, Nagga’s living fire protect him.

People are still discussing Edmure’s sex life when he makes himself pay attention. Lucas wants to hire a professional. Marq thinks Edmure could hook up if he tried. Theon drinks and looks nonchalant, pretending his jeans are not even a little tented. Acting normal is key to looking normal, so he lets himself lean back on Patrek’s chest like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Nothing to see here. All normal, normal, normal. And maybe he’s feeling slightly petulant too, annoyed at the whole state of affairs, because he looks back at Robb straight on, daring him to say something, to do something, while Patrek nuzzles his neck and he takes a long gulp from the bottle still in his hand.

Robb looks like an animal. Like now they’ve made eye contact, he’ll pounce the moment Theon dares to break it, and the idea, stupid as it is, sends a thrill down Theon’s spine. Patrek’s touch goes from good to too soft, too little in a heartbeat. He wants teeth. Hands around his throat, a slap on his face, weight over him. Anything.

Then, terrifyingly, it seems like Robb will comply.

Still looking at him, he gets up from his seat and starts cutting through the argument by cutting the way through the space between couches, movements sure despite the interference of drunken idiots on his way. All eyes are on him and his serious frown now, discussion forgotten to watch whatever he’ll do. Only Theon knows with sudden, terrible certainty that Robb will make a scene at his uncle’s stag party. No holding back, no taking prisoners. He might even punch someone – Patrek, it’s going to be Patrek. He wouldn’t punch Theon, he’d punch whoever else is involved.

He starts to giggle at the thought. Everyone stops looking at Robb – now at the center of their circle, trying to not step on the Vance on the floor – to look at him.

“Let’s get Ed a girl! To the dance-floor!”

The yell is loud enough that they hear clearly. Or maybe they’re so mindless by that point that they’d take instructions from the wall, never mind understanding what is going on or not. Either way they all get up, Theon included, and march downstairs. Soldiers on a mission.

He makes a point of dragging Patrek with him. He also makes a point of keeping the herd between him and Robb at all times. Still, when they reach the last steps, Robb has caught up.

Theon is looking ahead purposefully, smirking at the ever-changing lights and Ed and his friends stumbling onto the dance-floor, so he doesn’t have to look at anything else. It’s how he wants it. He feels Robb’s presence, his warmth, before his hand closes on his arm to hold him in place. It’s a firm touch, demanding but strangely gentle. Grounding, really, which is a good thing, because all at once everything disappears. He barely feels it when Patrek tugs at him, having walked ahead; the music is far away. The only thing he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears and Robb’s voice as he leans close, so close Theon can smell the cologne on him when he whispers:

“Honey, what are you doing?”

Drowned God, but Theon hates it when Robb is kind. His knees are trembling, actually trembling, and he’s small as a child in a way that has nothing to do with height. His cock aches for touch. He looks down, snorting, looking for an answer, and finds the red carpet of VIPness under his feet.

All in all, the laugh he lets out is quiet, but Robb is close. Theon looks at him, at his arched eyebrow, and points down.

He hates the delight that surges on his chest when Robb laughs at it too. It’s such a silly thing. He hates that it gives him… not hope, because what does he need hope for, but a sense of courage. Enough that he tries. Robb likes him. He does. He always has, despite all advice, evidence and good motivation to the contrary. In spite of Theon’s everything, Robb likes him.

He’s no Greyjoy. If Robb says he doesn’t have a problem with– with fags, then he means it. And Theon is not even that, he merely… dabs in similar pursuits. He will forgive Theon’s liaisons. He has to.

They’re best friends. Don’t those things come with the territory?

Theon opens then closes his mouth, unsure of what he might say. Robb’s brows furrow in naked expectation, but they’re interrupted when Patrek body-crashes on Theon, sending them both into Robb’s arms for him to bear their weight.

“You’re not dancing!” He screams. “Come on, you’re the one who wanted to dance!”

The rest of the world comes back into focus. Violently. He’s hyper-aware of Patrek hard at his back and of Robb’s arms supporting him. Edmure’s got nothing on him. Theon feels as though he might faint as the beat fills his brain again, but he grins instead and jumps back, letting himself be taken away, shaking his head apologetically. The wisp of bravery leaves him, but both Robb and Patrek cling on. They walk to the rest of the group in a single line with Theon in the middle, Patrek leading.

It could be worse. Technically. An enormous meteor could hit the club this very moment, for example. It could smash the building, killing everyone but him and Robb, destroying the sound system and conveniently giving them the time to talk about stuff while they’re buried under the debris. He imagines Robb’s low baritone _So that’s the second time your dick is hard because of me, care to explain?_ That would surely be worse than having Robb and Patrek glaring daggers at each other over his head, each holding on to one of his arms and keeping him in place while everyone around dances, pants tented, incapable of any form of escape or release. He couldn’t even scratch his nose as it is, but it can always get worse.

He’s just having a hard time believing it, given he’s stuck in this situation, wishing for environmental catastrophes. Oh, joy.

Maybe it’s because they’re so concentrated trying to stare each other down, or because Theon has more incentive to try to ignore them, but he’s the first to fully register the disaster unfolding in real time.

If the three stooges are too pathetic to get to dancing, Edmure has no such problem. Neither do the rest of his crew. In fact, they’re doing it with such enthusiasm and gracelessness that it nearly improves Theon’s mood in spite of everything; no one is clumsier than the groom to be. Three pretty women have appeared out of thin air to tempt him, but he’s resisting bravely, mini-skirts notwithstanding, but his lack of desire might have more to do with the way he’s turning pale green than with the company.

Theon tugs at Robb’s hand urgently.

“Your uncle!”

The shout doesn’t carry, and by the time Robb looks into him, laser-focused on his lips to try and read them, Edmure has fallen on his ass.

Because they’re more baboons than functional human beings, the people around crowd over him instead of helping. Robb, Theon and Patrek try to get to him too, but Theon in the one who gets there first – being the shortest, he’s way more advanced in the technique of elbowing people out of the way.

Edmure blinks at him from the floor, uncomprehending. Up close, his lips are slightly blue.

When Robb makes it, Theon already has one of Edmure’s arms around his neck, Marq supporting him on the other side, and they’ve hailed him up.

“There’s a paramedic at the door,” someone shouts.

Robb nods, suddenly all action. He takes Theon’s place under Edmure’s arm – a good thing, given that Theon’s knees are shaking from his dead weight – and Robert clears a path for them. Theon follows, or tries to. The crowd swallows them before he’s taken two steps and he’s left alone with his disgruntled arousal.

It’s Patrek who finds him again at the bar with a bottle of water. He’s laughing and shaking his head, so Theon doesn’t feel bad about not caring more about Edmure. He wouldn't be smiling if he had died, right?

This time, Theon is turned away from the counter and he can see Patrek approaching. He caps the bottle before Patrek gets near, offering what is left to him, but Patrek goes for a kiss instead, not needing any excuse to all but lay Theon down on the bar and devour him.

Theon has a lopsided grin when they part just enough to exchange a knowing look.

It feels good to have a routine in the midst of chaos.

He jumps Patrek as soon as they’re outside despite his too large baggy white pants and lime green shirt. They make out furiously on the sidewalk, giving the bouncers and passer-byes a spectacle – in general, but unbeknownst to them, also in restraint. If Theon had his way, he’d already be horizontal, but as it is, they kiss and pawn at each other, legs tangled as Patrek presses a thigh against his cock and pulls at his hair to make Theon tilt his head back.

Patrek frees himself to call a cab with a last flick of tongue and laughs when Theon tries to chase his mouth.

“Do you want to be taken in for public indecency?” He asks, doing a good job at playing the concerned citizen, the bastard. As if Theon doesn’t know him at all, as if he’s not the one who has to be the voice of reason more often than not between them.

Not tonight. He deserves a good ending for this goddamned day.

“Do we get to be in the same cell?” he asks, then proceeds to very literally climb Patrek.

They keep it up on the way to Theon’s – Robb wouldn’t need to be told to tip the driver extra, Theon thinks, huffing in annoyance as he pulls at Patrek’s belt – and on the elevator. The same neighbors who got an eyeful of Robb this afternoon now stare pointedly while they kiss, all teeth and tongue. Or maybe they’re different people. Maybe it’s the woman who called them degenerates under her breath in the hallway, still very audibly, or the men who give him looks promising violence every day on the street. Theon’s smirks into Patrek’s mouth either way.

This is just the beginning, if he has anything to say about it. He’s finding he likes the feeling of eyes on him, glaring hot; doesn’t matter if it’s in disgust or desire or fury. He wants witnesses. Even if their gazes can’t be a physical presence on his skin, he still wants it.

And he gets it, for a while, until Patrek manages to fish the key from Theon’s pocket and unlock the door. Theon lets him do all the work now, clinging to him like the most amorous octopus in the world while Patrek all but drags him to the bedroom, a hand squeezing his ass.

He throws Theon on the bed – he’d like to think that’s purely because they’ve done it enough that he knows roughness will do things to Theon, but in truth his arms are shaking a little from carrying him around – and immediately starts to yank at his jeans in the dark.

“Damn, did you paint those on?” he says, fumbling to get them as far as the thighs.

“Include more protein in your diet, please.” Theon rolls his eyes and bats his hands away. He finishes taking it off and then goes for his red scale shirt. As soon as he’s done, he starts on Patrek’s. The numpty has been watching him get naked instead of getting rid of his own ridiculous clothes. “Fuck, I have to do everything around here!”

“You’re such a brat when you’re horny!” Patrek laughs, far more fondly than the occasion calls for, and leans over him for another kiss.

Theon lets himself get trapped between the mattress and the heavy body above him, hugging him closer with arms and legs and returning the kiss laid on his lips as dirty as he knows how. Patrek moans on his mouth, pulling away just enough to look down at Theon with adoring eyes.

“You’re gorgeous...” he sighs, smiling dumbly.

“I know,” Theon says, rolling his eyes. “Get on with it.”

Patrek makes a final attempt at getting away, babbling something about lube, but Theon pulls him down.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” he says, nuzzling at Patrek’s face. “Come on.”

Patrek obliges at last. Theon could cry.

It’s not their best performance. Actually, it’s downright embarrassing. He’s still stretched from the dildo, but maybe he could have used some more lube. They can’t get a good rhythm going at all, limbs flailing drunkenly and hitting sensitive body parts that should never be hit, ever, and Patrek's cock keepsslipping out. Patrek thinks every time this happens is a good time to giggle and gently caress Theon’s face and whisper endearments in his ear before putting it in again. Theon is close to gagging him. What a frustrating man.

And yet, the weight on top of him sets his body singing with pleasure.

Instead of complaining and chancing ruining what little mood they have worked so hard to create, Theon runs his nails up and down Patrek's back until he’s too worked-up to be careful. He bends Theon’s body almost to the point of hurting, putting his knees over his broad shoulders and holding him down too tight by the arms as he moves in and out again and again.

It’s not Theon’s fault if he can’t stop his mouth, moans too frequent and high-pitched to conceal, because Patrek is finally fucking him right and he’s been craving this all day. He’d bite his knuckles or something, only he can’t move his hands far enough. He only has the vaguest sense in his mind that he should keep quiet – something about neighbors, or about apartments? – but he’s trying.

He has no choice but to turn his head a little and sink teeth on his mauve pillow.

There’s no premeditation to it, it’s nothing he has planned. It’s the only pillow still in the bed from before. But it still smells like Robb, like it did in the late afternoon, and so does the whole bed, now that Theon is paying attention. So does the whole room. So does the whole world.

Robb smells so fucking good.

It’s the easiest thing to close his eyes – then it’s Robb’s weight on top of him, Robb sucking on his toe, fucking him into the mattress at a desperate pace. It’s earlier today, only Theon made a move and Robb wanted it too and they stayed in bed until now without a break.

He’s had other fantasies while having sex, but this one is easy to get lost in.

That’s probably why it takes so long to notice anything out of place. The sound of a door slamming and heavy angry steps is too far away. It’s next-door or above. This is his apartment. People don’t just come inside without an invitation, not when only a selected few have the keys. Didn’t he lock the door? He can’t remember, he’s barely thinking right now, but he must have. He always does.

Light floods the room; it blinds Theon when he opens his eyes. There’s a switch next to the bed and Theon can’t fathom why he is the way he is, but Patrek would stop fucking him to turn the lights on and tell Theon he must see his beauty or something, he’s set on trying Theon’s bottomless well of patience today.

Except Patrek is also blinking in confusion when Theon recovers and he’s not making the noise reaching Theon’s ears, like someone swallowing a murderous scream by sheer force of will.

They turn almost as one towards it, even if Theon must push Patrek out of the way.

Even so, it’s a moment before Theon thinks to react. Robb is everywhere, he is in Theon’s mind, under Theon’s skin, digging a painful spot between his ribs. Why shouldn’t he be in his bedroom?

Maybe he’s still a little drunk.

It dawns on him that this is bad news the exact same moment Robb opens his mouth.

“What the FUCK is going on here?!”

He starts already shouting, but his voice gets louder with every word until Theon is smaller than a particle of dust. He’s subatomic.

Theon half wants to reach for the bedspread at the bottom of the mattress and cover himself up, gasping, like a delicate blue-blooded madam caught cheating on her lordly husband with the farm-hand, half wants to start laughing until he passes out from lack of oxygen. This might be the single most ridiculous situation he’s ever found himself in – and he once stole Maron’s car on a dare, waving as his brother tried to sprint after him, only to run out of gas two blocks away and have to beat it on foot to avoid the trashing of his life.

Yes, it’s all very funny. In time, once Theon has had the proper time to process, this will make for an excellent story.

For now, caught between two impossible choices, his brain simply goes for secret option No.3: short-circuit and do nothing.

It’s quite lucky, actually, because if he was forced to be mentally present for this fight, he would probably be trying to escape through the window. He would, if he were Patrek. It’s only the third floor and the weather is warm. Survivable conditions.

But Patrek barely knows Robb. He has no idea what it means that he is redder than his hair, or the significance of the vein pulsing on his forehead, so he tries to use his words.

“This is not what it looks like, dud–”

“You’re not having sex with Theon?!” Robb cuts him off, advancing into the room. He takes two large, threatening steps. Then he stops, still some respectable distance from the bed.

Patrek has moved to hide behind Theon in the meantime, possibly the smartest move he’s made this whole night. Except then he goes on and speaks again. All of human evolution culminating in some finely-honed survival instincts is wasted on him.

“There’s a good explanation for this,” he starts, growing confident now that he has a meat shield. “Not that anyone owes it to you, but–”

“Shut the fuck UP, you PIECE OF SHIT!” Robb yells. He starts pacing the room, coming across the chair and kicking it to the other side of the room with a loud cracking noise. “You think I give a flying fuck what you have to say?! You’re worth less than the fucking gum I scrapped from my shoe at the door! I’ve known this asshole since I was seven, I didn’t get in this bandwagon five minutes ago, and I’m gonna get a fucking explanation!”

“Maybe it’s what it looks like, a bit,” Patrek stutters after a beat, when Theon remains silent. His hand is digging on Theon’s waist, and now he has strength? Useless dumbass. “But it’s not a big deal.”

But the thing is, it is a big deal, isn’t it? Robb is his best friend. Theon has never kept a secret from him so deliberately before. None of the conquests, none of the family problems, none of the stupid hopes that amounted to nothing in the end. Mercy, not even the fact that he thinks his mom is hot. How fucked up is that? Robb has always been the person he told everything to, not because Robb makes him, but because he has always been there for Theon. He’s always been willing to listen and to care.

That he hasn’t told him about Patrek… it shows exactly how much of a big deal it is and they both know it.

“Listen, Robb,” he says, with no idea where he wants to go with this. “Listen. It just sorta happened… It’s not my fault! Kyra showed me this sex thing once, it made me curious and Patrek was, he was friendly, and it’s my apartment, I wasn’t expecting… I’m sorry, okay? Sorry.”

As his brain comes back online, it occurs to Theon he doesn’t even know what exactly he’s apologizing for. Robb never said the reason he’s abusing his key-privileges. He doesn’t know why Robb came here at all. Perhaps just to shout at Theon. Maybe… maybe he had guessed, even before catching them, from what happened this afternoon and at the party, and it couldn’t wait.

Robb has picked the chair back up and his knuckles are painfully white on the back of it. He’s looking down, curls hiding his eyes but not the displeased turn of his mouth. Theon can see he’s mulling his words over and preparing his own. He can even hear it already. _Are you having sex with men now, are you into it, Theon? Were you hard from touching another man? Today, were you hard from seeing me naked? Are you a faggot now? I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been a disappointment, why not an invert as well? Your brothers would never. my daughter is more of a man than you, whore._

“Are you trying to punish me?” Robb says at last, voice a normal volume again.

“No, no, of course not!” Theon says, crawling to the foot of the bed, uncaring of being naked and of Patrek witnessing this dreadful conversation. Patrek barely exists in Theon’s consciousness at the moment, just a rhythmic breath trying to be quieter. “This has nothing to do with you, I swear.”

Whatever Robb may think, the mistakes Theon makes are not his fault somehow. Theon has a magical talent for them. Even when he’s sure he’s doing the right thing, even occasionally the kind thing, he fucks things up beyond repair every single time.

Only when Robb looks at him does he realize he’s done it again.

Robb is not crying yet. He’s holding back – seems like Theon has lost the right to see that – but he will. There are tears in his blue eyes and the look he gives Theon is raw and betrayed.

Theon feels like he’s been gutted. He touches his own stomach to make sure before he can think to himself that it’s impossible. But so should be this pain and he’s feeling it. Something squeezing his insides, crushing him until he will collapse inwards.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

It’s just a whisper, but enough to make a wave of panicked, ashamed anger overcome Theon.

“Really? This is my worst? This?!” He shouts, getting up to take the first thing in reach to throw at stupid Robb’s head. “Not the time I dyed Ghost pink? Or when I lost Bran at the park? Or the time I let Bolton’s son inside even though your father said not to and he started destroying your house?”

Behind him, Patrek lets out a _wow_ in honor of Theon’s laundry list of terrible life choices, but Theon can’t be bothered with him now. He’s busy. Robb’s not even blinking. He’s been hit by a shoe and a pair of pants so far – both Patrek’s – but he’s not even trying not to be and that infuriates Theon even more. So they know Theon’s aim is better than Robb’s ability to avoid stuff thrown at him, so what? He can’t just decide the fight is over and… and… and fucking disengage from Theon.

He can’t just walk away.

“Yeah. This.” And with that, the first few tears fall.

Theon lets go of the other shoe he’s found, drained of anger. He wants to lay down on the floor in fetal position and not move for several hours. He wants to go to Robb and comfort him even though he’s bad at it. His lip is trembling. It’s a full minute until he’s gotten himself under control enough to speak.

“Those are all objectively worse than me sleeping with a guy,” he points out. A stubborn part of him wants to believe if he just rubs enough logic on Robb’s face, everything will be better. “You forgave all of them.”

Robb shrugs. The pressure of a thousand suns bear down on Theon’s chest.

“I need to leave.”

It’s the only thing he says before he turns around and does just that.

Theon follows him to the front door. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, don’t go.”

Robb closes the door. Theon hears him locking it from the outside. Of course he does. He doesn’t need to be told.

When Patrek goes to him some time later, Theon’s still staring at the knob, uncomprehending.

“Hey,” he whispers, a hand finding the small of Theon’s back and rubbing soothingly. He’s fully dressed while Theon is still naked. His clothes look even uglier than before, all wrinkled like that. “I should go. The wedding is in a few hours… I’ll come by later?”

“Fuck off,” Theon says, hollow beyond the capacity of mustering any bite. He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, but not soon enough that he can take them back before Patrek has made his escape, leaving him alone.

So this is what it’s like to be fresh out of friends, huh?

On the plus side, his super power of fucking up relentlessly is alive and well. Final score: Theon Greyjoy, zero; Theon Greyjoy, a thousand.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome kudos and comments if you made it this far, readers, and I'm still on tumblr (rainhalydia) until this site is pried from my cold dead hands. Until next chapter.


End file.
